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UNKNOWN 
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PUBLISHED  BY  CHARLES  SCKIBNER'S  SONS 


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THE    UNKNOWN    QUANTITY 


It  did  people  good  to  buy  of  her. 


THE 

UNKNOWN  QUANTITY 

A  Book  of  Romance 
And  Some  Half  -Told  Tales 


HENRY  VAN  DYKE 

LetX  represent  the  unknown  quantity  " 

LeXentreb  Algebra 


I 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS 
1912 


Copyright,  1912,  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons 
Published  October,  1912 


DeBicatcU 

IN    THANKFULNESS 
TO    THE    MEMORY    OF 

DEAR  DAUGHTER  DOROTHEA 

RAY    OF    LIGHT 

SONG   OF  JOY 

HEART    OF    LOVE 

1888-1912 


DOROTHEA 

A  deeper  crimson  in  the  rose, 
A  deeper  blue  in  sky  and  sea, 
And  ever,  as  the  summer  goes, 
A  deeper  loss  in  losing  thee ! 

A  deeper  music  in  the  strain 
Of  hermit-thrush  from  lonely  tree ; 
And,  deeper  grows  the  sense  of  gain 
My  life  has  found  in  having  thee. 

A  deeper  love,  a  deeper  rest, 

A  deeper  joy  in  all  I  see ; 

And  ever  deeper  in  my  breast 

A  silver  song  that  comes  from  thee. 

H.  V.  D. 

MOUNT  DESERT, 
August  1,  1912. 


PREFACE 

THERE  is  a  chain  of  little  lakes — a  necklace  of  lost 
jewels — lying  in  the  forest  that  clothes  the  blue 
Laurentian  Mountains  in  the  Province  of  Quebec. 

Each  of  these  hidden  lakes  has  its  own  character 
and  therefore  its  own  charm.  One  is  bright  and 
friendly,  with  wooded  hills  around  it,  and  silver 
beaches,  and  red  berries  of  the  rowan-tree  fringing 
the  shores.  Another  is  sombre  and  lonely,  set  in  a 
circle  of  dark  firs  and  larches,  with  sighing,  trem 
bling  reeds  along  the  bank.  Another  is  only  a 
round  bowl  of  crystal  water,  the  colour  of  an  aqua 
marine,  transparent  and  joyful  as  the  sudden  smile 
on  the  face  of  a  child.  Another  is  surrounded  by 
fire-scarred  mountains,  and  steep  cliffs  frown  above 
it,  and  the  shores  are  rough  with  fallen  fragments 
of  rock;  it  seems  as  if  the  setting  of  this  jewel  had 
been  marred  and  broken  in  battle,  but  the  gem 
itself  shines  tranquilly  amid  the  ruin,  and  the 
lichens  paint  the  rocks,  and  the  new  woods  spring 
vii 


PREFACE 

bright  green  upon  the  mountains.  There  are  many 
more  lakes,  and  all  are  different.  The  thread  that 
binds  them  together  is  the  little  river  flowing  from 
one  to  another,  now  with  a  short,  leaping  passage, 
now  with  a  longer,  winding  course. 

You  may  follow  it  in  your  canoe,  paddling 
through  the  stillwaters,  dropping  down  the  rapids 
with  your  setting-pole,  wading  and  dragging  your 
boat  in  the  shallows,  and  coming  to  each  lake  as  a 
surprise,  something  distinct  and  separate  and  per 
sonal.  It  seems  strange  that  they  should  be  sisters; 
they  are  so  unlike.  But  the  same  stream,  rising  in 
unknown  springs,  and  seeking  an  unknown  sea,  runs 
through  them  all,  and  lives  in  them  all,  and  makes 
them  all  belong  together. 

The  thread  which  unites  the  stories  in  this  book 
is  like  that.  It  is  the  sign  of  the  unknown  quan 
tity,  the  sense  of  mystery  and  strangeness,  that 
runs  through  human  life. 

We  think  we  know  a  great  deal  more  about 
the  processes  and  laws  and  conditions  of  life  than 
men  used  to  know.  And  probably  that  is  true; 
though  it  is  not  quite  certain,  for  it  is  hard  to  say 

viii 


PREFACE 

precisely  how  much  those  inscrutable  old  Egyp 
tians  and  Hebrews  and  Chaldseans  and  Hindus 
knew  and  did  not  tell. 

But  granting  that  we  have  gone  beyond  them, 
we  have  not  gone  very  far,  we  have  not  come 
to  perfect  knowledge.  There  is  still  something 
around  us  and  within  that  baffles  and  surprises  us. 
Events  happen  which  are  as  mysterious  after  our 
glib  explanations  as  they  were  before.  Changes 
for  good  or  ill  take  place  in  the  heart  of  man  for 
which  his  intellect  gives  no  reason.  There  is  the 
daily  miracle  of  the  human  will,  the  power  of  free 
choice,  for  which  no  one  can  account,  and  which 
sometimes  flashes  out  the  strangest  things.  There 
is  the  secret,  incalculable  influence  of  one  life  on 
another.  There  is  the  web  of  circumstance  woven 
to  an  unseen  pattern.  There  is  the  vast,  unexplored 
land  of  dreams  in  which  we  spend  one-third  of  our 
lives  without  even  remembering  most  of  what  be 
falls  us  there. 

I  am  not  thinking  now  of  the  so-called  "realm 
of  the  occult,"  nor  of  those  extraordinary  occur 
rences  which  startle  and  perplex  the  world  from 

ix 


PREFACE 

time  to  time,  nor  of  those  complicated  and  subtle 
problems  of  crime  which  are  set  to  puzzle  us.  I 
am  thinking  of  much  more  human  and  familiar 
things,  quite  natural  and  inevitable  as  it  seems, 
which  make  us  feel  that  life  is  threaded  through 
and  through  by  the  unknown  quantity. 

This  is  the  thread  that  I  have  followed  from  one 
to  another  of  these  stories.  They  are  as  different 
as  my  lakes  in  the  North  Country;  some  larger  and 
some  smaller;  some  brighter  and  some  darker;  for 
that  is  the  way  life  goes.  But  most  of  them  end 
happily,  even  after  sorrow;  for  that  is  what  I  think 
life  means. 

Four  of  the  stories  have  grown  out  of  slight  hints, 
for  which  I  return  thanks.  For  the  two  Breton 
legends  which  appear  in  "The  Wedding-Ring"  and 
"Messengers  at  the  Window,"  I  am  indebted  to 
my  friend,  M.  Anatole  Le  Braz;  for  an  incident  which 
suggested  "The  Night  Call,"  to  my  friend,  Mrs. 
Edward  Robinson;  and  for  the  germ  of  "The 
Mansion,"  to  my  friend,  Mr.  W.  D.  Sammis. 
If  the  stories  that  have  come  from  their  hints 
are  different  from  what  my  friends  thought  they 


PREFACE 

would  be,  that  is  only  another  illustration  of  the 
theme. 

Between  the  longer  stories  there  are  three  groups 
of  tales  that  are  told  in  a  briefer  and  different 
manner.  They  are  like  etchings  in  which  more  is 
suggested  than  is  in  the  picture.  For  this  reason 
they  are  called  Half -Told  Tales,  in  the  hope  that 
they  may  mean  to  the  reader  more  than  they  say. 

Without  the  unknown  quantity  life  would  be 
easier,  perhaps,  but  certainly  less  interesting.  It 
is  not  likely  that  we  shall  ever  eliminate  it.  But 
we  can  live  with  it  and  work  with  it  bravely,  hope 
fully,  happily,  if  we  believe  that  after  all  it  means 
good — infinite  good,  passing  comprehension — to  all 
who  live  in  love. 

AVALON, 

June  1,  1912. 


CONTENTS 

PAQB 

The  Wedding-Ring  3 

Messengers  at  the  Window  25 

The  Countersign  of  the  Cradle  43 

The  Key  of  the  Tower  67 

The  Ripening  of  the  Fruit  73 

The  King's  Jewel  80 

The  Music-Lover  87 

Humoreske  103 

An  Old  Game  139 

The  Unruly  Sprite  144 
A  Change  of  Air 


The  Night  Call  167 

The  Effectual  Fervent  Prayer  203 

The  Return  of  the  Charm  235 


Xlll 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


Beggars  Under  the  Bush  249 

Stronghold  257 

In  the  Odour  of  Sanctity  266 

The  Sad  Shepherd  2S7 

The  Mansion  325 


xiv 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

It  did  people  good  to  buy  of  her  Frontispiece 

From  a  drawing  by  Charles  S.  Chapman. 

Facing  page 

The  King's  Jewel  82 

From  a  drawing  by  Garth  Jones. 

The  Music-Lover  90 

From  a  drawing  by  Sigismond  de  Ivanowski. 

The  Unruly  Sprite  154 

From  a  drawing  by  Garth  Jones. 

She  flung  herself  across  his  knees  and  put  her 

arms  around  him  230 

From  a  drawing  by  Paul  Julien  Meylan. 

Stronghold  258 

From  a  drawing  by  Garth  Jones. 

So  the  sad  shepherd  thanked  them  for  their 
entertainment 

From  a  drawing  by  Blendon  Campbell. 

Title-page,  head  and  end  pieces  by  Garth  Jones 


THE  WEDDING-RING 


THE    WEDDING-RING 

BEFORE  Toinette  Girard  made  up  her  mind  to 
marry  Prosper  Leclere, — you  remember  the  man 
at  Abbeville  who  had  such  a  brave  heart  that  he 
was  not  willing  to  fight  with  an  old  friend, — be 
fore  Toinette  perceived  and  understood  how  brave 
Prosper  was,  it  seemed  as  if  she  were  very  much  in 
doubt  whether  she  did  not  love  some  one  else  more 
than  she  loved  him,  whether  he  and  she  really  were 
made  for  each  other,  whether,  in  short,  she  cared 
for  him  enough  to  give  herself  entirely  to  him. 

But  after  they  had  been  married  six  weeks  there 
was  no  doubt  left  in  her  mind.  He  was  the  one 
man  in  the  world  for  her.  He  satisfied  her  to  the 
core — although  by  this  time  she  knew  most  of  his 
faults.  It  was  not  so  much  that  she  loved  him  in 
spite  of  them,  but  she  simply  could  not  imagine 
him  changed  in  any  way  without  losing  a  part  of 

him,  and  that  idea  was  both  intolerable  and  in- 

3 


THE  WEDDING-RING 

credible  to  her.  Just  as  he  was,  she  clung  to  him 
and  became  one  with  him. 

I  know  it  seems  ridiculous  to  describe  a  love  like 
that,  and  it  is  certainly  impossible  to  explain  it. 
It  is  not  common,  nor  regular,  nor  altogether  jus 
tifiable  by  precept  and  authority.  Reason  is 
against  it;  and  the  doctors  of  the  church  have 
always  spoken  severely  of  the  indulgence  of  any 
human  affection  that  verges  on  idolatry.  But  the 
fact  remains  that  there  are  a  few  women  in  the 
world  who  are  capable  of  such  a  passion. 

Capable?  No,  that  is  not  the  word.  They  are 
created  for  it.  They  cannot  help  it.  It  is  not  a 
virtue,  it  is  simply  a  quality.  Their  whole  being 
depends  upon  their  love.  They  hang  upon  it,  as 
a  wreath  hangs  from  a  nail  in  the  wall.  If  it 
breaks  they  are  broken.  If  it  holds  they  are  happy. 
Other  things  interest  them  and  amuse  them,  of 
course,  but  there  is  only  one  thing  that  really  counts 
— to  love  and  to  be  loved. 

Toinette  was  a  woman  of  that  rare  race.  To  the 
outward  view  she  was  just  a  pretty  French  Cana 
dian  girl  with  an  oval  face,  brown  hair,  and  eyes 

4 


THE  WEDDING-RING 

like  a  very  dark  topaz.  Her  hands  were  small, 
but  rather  red  and  rough.  Her  voice  was  rich  and 
vibrant,  like  the  middle  notes  of  a  'cello,  but  she 
spoke  a  dialect  that  was  as  rustic  as  a  cabbage. 
Her  science  was  limited  to  enough  arithmetic  to 
enable  her  to  keep  accounts,  her  art  to  the  gift  of 
singing  a  very  lovely  contralto  by  ear,  and  her  no 
tions  of  history  bordered  on  the  miraculous.  She 
was  obstinate,  superstitious,  and  at  times  quick 
tempered.  But  she  had  a  positive  genius  for  lov 
ing.  That  raised  her  into  the  first  rank,  and  en 
abled  her  to  bestow  as  much  happiness  on  Prosper 
as  if  she  had  been  a  queen. 

It  was  a  grief  to  them,  of  course,  that  they  had 
no  children.  But  this  grief  did  not  destroy,  nor 
even  diminish,  their  felicity  in  each  other;  it  was 
like  the  soft  shadow  of  a  cloud  passing  over  a  land 
scape — the  sun  was  still  shining  and  the  world  was 
fair.  They  were  too  happy  to  be  discontented. 
And  their  fortunes  were  thriving,  too,  so  that  they 
were  kept  pretty  hard  at  work — which,  next  to 
love,  is  the  best  antidote  for  unhappiness. 

After  the  death  of  the  old  bonhomme  Girard,  the 
5 


THE  WEDDING-RING 

store  fell  to  Prosper;  and  his  good  luck — or  his 
cleverness,  or  his  habit  of  always  being  ready  for 
things,  call  it  what  you  will — stuck  by  him.  Busi 
ness  flourished  in  the  Bon  Marche  of  Abbeville. 
Toinette  helped  it  by  her  gay  manners  and  her  skill 
in  selling.  It  did  people  good  to  buy  of  her:  she 
made  them  feel  that  she  was  particularly  glad  that 
they  were  getting  just  what  they  needed.  A  pipe 
of  the  special  shape  which  Pierre  affected,  a  calico 
dress-pattern  of  the  shade  most  becoming  to  Ange- 
lique,  a  brand  of  baking-powder  which  would 
make  the  batter  rise  up  like  mountains — v'la, 
voisine,  c*esi  Ven  bon!  Everything  that  she  sold 
had  a  charm  with  it.  Consequently  trade  was 
humming,  and  the  little  wooden  house  beside  the 
store  was  Ven  trimee. 

The  only  drawback  to  the  happiness  of  the  Le- 
cleres  was  the  fact  that  business  required  Prosper 
to  go  away  for  a  fortnight  twice  a  year  to  replenish 
his  stock  of  goods.  He  went  to  Quebec  or  to  Mon 
treal,  for  he  had  a  great  many  kinds  of  things  to 
get,  and  he  wanted  good  things  and  good  bargains, 
and  he  did  not  trust  the  commercial  travellers. 

G 


THE  WEDDING-RING 

"Who  pays  those  men,"  he  said,  "to  run  around 
everywhere,  with  big  watch-chains?  You  and  me! 
But  why?  I  can  buy  better  myself — because  I 
understand  what  Abbeville  wants — and  I  can  buy 
cheaper." 

The  times  of  his  absence  were  heavy  and  slow  to 
Toinette.  The  hours  were  doped  out  of  the  day 
as  reluctantly  as  black  molasses  dribbles  from  a 
jug.  A  professional  instinct  kept  her  up  to  her 
work  in  the  store.  She  jollied  the  customers,  looked 
after  the  accounts,  made  good  sales,  and  even  co 
quetted  enough  with  the  commercial  travellers  to 
send  them  away  without  ill-will  for  the  establish 
ment  which  refused  to  buy  from  them. 

"A  little  badinage  does  no  harm,"  she  said,  "it 
keeps  people  from  getting  angry  because  they  can't 
do  any  more  business." 

But  in  the  house  she  was  dull  and  absent-minded. 
She  went  about  as  if  she  had  lost  something.  She 
sat  in  her  rocking-chair,  with  her  hands  in  her  lap, 
as  if  she  were  waiting  for  something.  The  yellow 
light  of  the  lamp  shone  upon  her  face  and  hurt  her 
eyes.  A  tear  fell  upon  her  knitting.  The  old  tante 

7 


THE  WEDDING-RING 

Bergeron,  who  came  in  to  keep  house  for  her  while 
she  was  busy  with  the  store,  diagnosed  her  malady 
and  was  displeased  with  it. 

"You  are  love-sick,"  said  she.  "That  is  bad. 
Especially  for  a  married  woman.  It  is  wrong  to 
love  any  of  God's  creatures  too  much.  Trouble 
will  come  of  it — voyons  voir." 

"But,  aunty,"  answered  Toinette,  "Prosper  is 
not  just  any  of  God's  creatures.  He  is  mine.  How 
could  I  love  him  too  much?  Besides,  I  don't  do 
it.  It  does  itself.  How  can  I  help  it?" 

"It  is  a  malady,"  sighed  the  old  woman  shaking 
her  head.  "It  is  a  malady  of  youth,  my  child. 
There  is  danger  in  it — and  for  Prosper  too!  You 
make  an  idol  of  a  man  and  you  spoil  him.  You 
upset  his  mind.  Men  are  like  that.  You  will 
bring  trouble  upon  your  man,  if  you  don't  take 
care.  God  will  send  you  a  warning — perhaps  a 
countersign  of  death." 

"What  is  that,"  cried  Toinette,  her  heart  shak 
ing  within  her  breast,  "what  do  you  mean  with 
your  countersign  of  death?" 

The  old  woman  nodded  her  head  mysteriously 
8 


THE  WEDDING-RING 

and  leaned  forward,  putting  her  gnarled  hand  on 
Toinette's  round  knee  and  peering  with  her  faded 
eyes  into  the  girl's  wild-flower  face. 

"It  is  the  word,"  said  she,  "that  death  speaks 
before  he  crosses  the  threshold.  He  gives  a  sign 
— sometimes  one  thing,  and  sometimes  another — 
before  he  comes  in.  Our  folk  in  Brittany  have 
understood  about  that  for  a  long  time.  My  grand 
mother  has  told  me.  It  always  comes  to  one  who 
has  gone  too  far,  to  one  who  is  like  you.  You  must 
be  careful.  You  must  go  to  Mass  every  day  and 
pray  that  your  malady  may  be  restrained." 

So  Toinette,  having  tasted  of  the  strange  chalice 
of  fear,  went  to  the  church  early  every  morning 
while  Prosper  was  away  and  prayed  that  she  might 
not  love  him  so  much  as  to  make  God  jealous.  The, 
absurdity  of  such  a  prayer  never  occurred  to  hen- 
She  made  it  with  childish  simplicity.  Probably  it 
did  no  harm.  For  when  Prosper  came  home  she- 
loved  him  more  than  ever.  Then  she  went  to  High 
Mass  every  Sunday  morning  with  him  and  prayed 
for  other  things. 

After  four  years  there  came  a  day  when  Prosper 
9 


THE  WEDDING-RING 

must  go  away  for  a  longer  absence.  There  was  an 
affair  connected  with  the  Department  of  Forests 
and  Fisheries,  which  could  only  be  arranged  at 
Ottawa.  Thither  he  must  go  to  see  the  lawyers, 
and  there  he  must  stay  perhaps  a  month,  perhaps 
two. 

You  can  imagine  that  Toinette  was  desolate. 
The  draught  of  fear  that  tante  Bergeron  had  given 
her  grew  more  potent  and  bitter  in  her  simple  heart. 
And  the  strange  thing  was  that,  although  she  was 
ignorant  of  it,  there  was  apparently  something  true 
in  the  warning  which  the  old  woman  had  given. 
For  jealousy — that  vine  with  flying  seeds  and 
strangling  creepers — had  taken  root  in  the  heart  of 
Prosper  Leclere. 

Yes,  I  know  it  is  contrary  to  all  the  rules  and  to 
all  the  proverbs,  but  so  it  happened.  It  is  not  true 
that  the  strongest  love  is  the  most  jealous.  It  is 
the  lesser  love,  the  love  which  receives  more  than 
it  gives,  that  lies  open  to  the  floating  germs  of  mis 
trust  and  suspicion.  And  so  it  was  Prosper  who 
began  to  have  doubts  whether  Toinette  thought  of 
him  as  much  when  he  was  away  as  when  he  was 

10 


THE  WEDDING-RING 

with  her;  whether  her  gladness  when  he  came  home 
was  not  something  that  she  put  on  to  fool  him  and 
humour  him;  whether  her  badinage  with  the  com 
mercial  travellers  (and  especially  with  that  good- 
looking  Irishman,  Flaherty  from  Montreal,  of  whom 
the  village  gossips  had  much  to  say)  might  not 
be  more  serious  than  it  looked;  whether — ah,  well, 
you  know,  when  a  man  begins  to  follow  fool  thoughts 
like  that,  they  carry  him  pretty  far  astray  in  the 
wilderness. 

Prosper  was  a  good  fellow  with  a  touch  of  the 
prig  in  him.  He  was  a  Catholic  with  a  Puritan 
temperament  and  a  Gallic  imagination.  The  idol 
atry  of  Toinette  .had,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  spoiled 
him  a  little;  it  was  so  much  that  he  weakly  ques 
tioned  the  reality  of  it,  as  if  it  were  too  good  to  be 
true.  All  the  time  he  was  in  Ottawa  and  on  the 
journey  those  fool  thoughts  hobbled  around  him 
and  misled  him  and  made  him  unhappy. 

Meantime  Toinette  was  toiling  through  the  time 
of  separation,  with  a  laugh  for  the  store,  and  a  sigh 
for  the  lonely  house,  and  a  prayer  for  the  church. 
Tired  as  she  was  at  night,  she  did  not  sleep  well, 

11 


THE  WEDDING-RING 

and  her  dreams  were  troubled  by  aunty  Bergeron's 
warning  against  loving  too  much. 

In  the  cold  drab  dawn  of  a  March  morning  it 
seemed  to  her  as  if  the  church  bell  had  just  stopped 
ringing  as  she  awaked  from  a  dream  of  Prosper. 
She  put  on  her  clothes  quickly  and  hurried  out. 
The  road  was  deserted.  In  the  snowy  fields  the 
little  fir-trees  stood  out  as  black  as  ink.  Against 
the  sky  rose  the  gray-stone  church  like  a  fortress 
of  refuge. 

But  as  she  entered  the  door,  instead  of  five  or  six 
well-known  neighbours,  kneeling  in  the  half-dark 
ness,  she  saw  that  the  church  was  filled  with  a 
strange,  thick,  blinding  radiance,  like  a  mist  of  light. 
Everything  was  blurred  and  confused  in  that  lumi 
nous  fog.  There  was  not  a  face  to  be  seen.  Yet 
she  felt  the  presence  of  a  vast  congregation  all 
around  her.  There  were  movements  in  the  mist. 
The  rustling  of  silks,  the  breath  of  rich  and  strange 
perfumes,  a  low  rattling  as  of  hidden  chains,  came 
to  her  from  every  side.  There  were  voices  of  men 
and  women,  young  and  old,  rough  and  delicate, 
hoarse  and  sweet,  all  praying  the  same  prayer  in 

12 


THE  WEDDING-RING 

many  tongues.  She  could  not  hear  it  clearly,  but 
the  sound  of  their  murmurs  and  sighs  was  like  the 
whisper  of  the  fir-wood  when  the  wind  walks  through 
it. 

She  was  bewildered  and  frightened.  Part  of 
going  to  church  means  having  people  that  you  know 
near  you.  Her  heart  fluttered  with  a  vague  ter 
ror,  and  she  sank  into  the  first  seat  by  the  door. 

She  could  not  see  the  face  of  the  priest  at  the 
altar.  His  voice  was  unfamiliar.  The  tinkle  of 
the  bell  sounded  from  an  infinite  distance.  The 
sound  of  footsteps  came  down  the  aisle.  It  must 
be  some  one  carrying  the  plate  for  the  offering.  As 
he  advanced  slowly  she  could  hear  the  clink  of  the 
coins  dropping  into  it.  Mechanically  she  put  her 
hand  in  her  pocket  and  drew  out  the  little  piece  of 
silver  and  the  four  coppers  that  by  chance  were 
there. 

When  the  man  came  near  she  saw  that  he  was 
dressed  in  a  white  robe  with  a  hood  over  his  face. 
The  plate  was  full  of  golden  coins.  She  held  out 
her  poor  little  offering.  The  man  in  the  cowl  shook 
his  head  and  drew  back  the  plate. 

13 


THE  WEDDING-RING 

"It  is  for  the  souls  of  the  dead,"  he  whispered, 
"the  dead  whom  we  have  loved  too  much.  Noth 
ing  but  gold  is  good  enough  for  this  offering." 

"But  this  is  all  I  have,"  she  stammered. 

"There  is  a  ring  on  your  hand,"  he  answered  in 
a  voice  which  pierced  her  heart. 

Shivering  dumbly  like  a  dog,  palsied  with  pain, 
yet  compelled  by  an  instinct  which  she  dared  not 
resist,  she  drew  her  wedding-ring  from  her  finger 
and  dropped  it  into  the  plate. 

As  it  fell  there  was  a  clang  as  if  a  great  bell  had 
tolled;  and  she  rose  and  ran  from  the  church,  never 
stopping  until  she  reached  her  own  room  and  fell 
on  her  knees  beside  her  bed,  sobbing  as  if  her  heart 
would  break. 

The  first  thing  that  roused  her  was  the  clatter  of 
the  dishes  in  the  kitchen.  The  yellow  light  of 
morning  filled  the  room.  She  wondered  to  find 
herself  fully  dressed  and  kneeling  by  the  bed  in 
stead  of  sleeping  in  it.  It  was  late,  she  had  missed 
the  hour  of  Mass.  Her  glance  fell  upon  her  left 
hand,  lying  stretched  out  upon  the  bed.  The 
third  finger  was  bare. 

14 


THE   WEDDING-RING 

All  the  scene  in  the  church  rushed  over  her  like 
a  drive  of  logs  in  the  river  when  the  jam  breaks. 
She  felt  as  helpless  as  a  little  child  in  a  canoe  be 
fore  the  downward  sweeping  flood.  She  did  not 
wish  to  cry  out,  to  struggle — only  to  crouch  down, 
and  cover  her  eyes,  and  wait.  Whatever  was  com 
ing  would  come. 

Then  the  force  of  youth  and  hope  and  love  rose 
within  her  and  she  leaped  to  her  feet.  "Bah!" 
she  said  to  herself,  "I  am  a  baby.  It  was  only  a 
dream, — the  cure  has  told  us  not  to  be  afraid  of 
them, — I  snap  my  fingers  at  that  old  Bergeron 
with  her  stupid  countersigns, — je  ni'en  fricasse! 
But,  my  ring — my  ring?  I  have  dropped  it,  that's 
all,  while  I  was  groping  around  the  room  in  my 
sleep.  After  a  while  I  will  look  for  it  and  find  it." 

She  washed  her  face  and  smoothed  her  hair  and 
walked  into  the  kitchen.  Breakfast  was  ready  and 
the  old  woman  was  grumbling  because  it  had  been 
kept  waiting. 

"You  are  lazy,"  she  said,  "a  love-sick  woman  is 
good  for  nothing.  Your  eyes  are  red.  You  look 
bad.  You  have  seen  something.  A  countersign!" 

15 


THE   WEDDING-RING 

She  peered  at  the  girl  curiously,  the  wrinkles  on 
her  yellow  face  deepening  like  the  cracks  in  drying 
clay,  and  her  thin  lips  working  as  if  they  mumbled 
a  delicious  morsel, — a  foretaste  of  the  terrible. 

"Let  me  alone  with  your  silly  talk,"  cried  Toi- 
nette  gaily.  "I  am  hungry.  Besides,  I  have  a 
headache.  You  must  take  care  of  the  store  this 
morning.  I  will  stay  here.  Prosper  will  come 
home  to-day." 

"  Frivolante,"  said  the  old  woman,  with  her  sharp 
eyes  fixed  on  the  girl's  left  hand,  "why  do  you  think 
that?  Where  is  your  wedding-ring?" 

"I  dropped  it,"  replied  Toinette,  drawing  back 
her  hand  quickly  and  letting  it  fall  under  the  table 
cloth,  "it  must  be  somewhere  in  my  room." 

"She  dropped  it,"  repeated  the  old  woman,  with 
wagging  head,  "tiens!  what  a  pity!  The  ring  that 
not  even  death  should  take  from  her  finger, — she 
dropped  it!  But  that  is  a  bad  sign, — the  worst  of 
all, — a  countersign  of " 

"Will   you   go?     Old   babbler,"    cried   Toinette, 
springing  up  in  anger,  "I  tell  you  to  go  to  the  store. 
I  am  mistress  in  this  house." 
16 


THE  WEDDING-RING 

Tante  Bergeron  clumped  sullenly  away,  mutter 
ing,  "A  mistress  without  a  wedding-ring!  Oh, 
la-la,  la-la!  There's  a  big  misery  in  that." 

Toinette  rolled  up  her  sleeves  and  washed  the 
dishes.  She  tried  to  sing  a  little  at  her  work,  be 
cause  she  knew  that  Prosper  liked  it,  but  the  notes 
seemed  to  stick  in  her  throat.  She  wiped  her  eyes 
with  the  hem  of  her  apron,  and  went  upstairs,  bare- 
armed,  to  search  for  her  ring. 

She  looked  and  felt  in  every  corner  of  the  room, 
took  up  the  rag-carpet  rugs  and  shook  them,  moved 
every  chair  and  the  big  chest  of  drawers  and  the 
wash-stand,  pulled  the  covers  and  the  pillows  and 
the  mattress  off  the  bed  and  threw  them  on  the 
floor.  When  she  had  finished  the  room  looked  as 
if  the  big  north-west  wind  had  passed  through  it. 

Then  Toinette  sat  down  on  the  bed,  rubbing  the 
little  white  mark  on  her  finger  where  the  ring  had 
been,  and  staring  through  the  window  at  the  church 
as  if  she  were  hypnotised.  All  sorts  of  dark  and 
cloudy  thoughts  were  trooping  around  her.  Per 
haps  Prosper  had  met  with  an  accident,  or  he  was 
sick;  or  perhaps  the  suspicions  and  unjust  re- 

17 


THE  WEDDING-RING 

preaches  with  which  he  had  sometimes  wounded 
her  lately  had  grown  into  his  mind,  so  that  he  was 
angry  with  her  and  did  not  want  to  see  her.  Per 
haps  some  one  had  been  telling  lies  to  him,  and 
made  him  mad,  and  there  was  a  fight,  and  a  knife — 
she  could  see  him  lying  on  the  floor  of  a  tavern,  in 
a  little  red  puddle,  with  white  face  and  staring  eyes, 
cold  and  reproachful.  Would  he  never  come  back, 
come  home? 

In  the  front  of  the  store  sleigh-bells  jingled.  It 
was  probably  some  customer.  No,  she  knew  in  her 
heart  it  was  her  husband ! 

But  she  could  not  go  to  him, — he  must  come  to 
her,  here,  away  from  that  hateful  old  woman.  A 
step  sounded  in  the  hall,  the  door  opened,  Prosper 
stood  before  her.  She  ran  to  him  and  threw  her 
arms  around  him.  But  he  did  not  answer  her  kiss. 
His  voice  was  as  cold  as  his  hands. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "I  come  back  sooner  than 
you  expected,  eh?  A  little  surprise — like  a  story 
book." 

She  could  not  speak,  her  heart  was  beating  in 
her  throat,  her  arms  dropped  at  her  side. 

IS 


THE  WEDDING-RING 

"You  are  fond  of  your  bed,"  he  went  on, 
"you  rise  late,  and  your  room, — it  looks  like  mad. 
Perhaps  you  had  company.  A  party?  —  or  a 
fracas?" 

Her  cheeks  flamed,  her  eyes  filled  with  tears,  her 
mouth  quivered,  but  no  words  came. 

"Well,"  he  continued,  "you  don't  say  much,  but 
you  look  well.  I  suppose  you  had  a  good  time  while 
I  was  gone.  Why  have  you  taken  off  your  wedding- 
ring?  When  a  woman  does  that,  she — 

Her  face  went  very  white,  her  eyes  burned,  she 
spoke  with  her  deepest,  slowest  note. 

"Stop,  Prosper,  you  are  unjust,  something  has 
made  you  crazy,  some  one  has  told  you  lies.  You 
are  insulting  me,  you  are  hurting  me, — but  I, — 
well,  I  am  the  one  that  loves  you  always.  So  I 
will  tell  you  what  has  happened.  Sit  down  there 
on  the  bed  and  be  quiet.  You  have  a  right  to 
know  it  all, — and  I  have  the  right  to  tell  you." 

Then  she  stood  before  him,  with  her  right  hand 
covering  the  white  mark  on  the  ring-finger,  and 
told  him  the  strange  story  of  the  Mass  for  the  dead 
who  had  been  too  much  loved.  He  listened  with 

19 


THE  WEDDING-RING 

changing  eyes,  now  full  of  doubt,  now  full  of  won 
der  and  awe. 

"You  tell  it  well,"  he  said,  "and  I  have  heard 
of  such  things  before.  But  did  this  really  happen 
to  you?  Is  it  true?  " 

"As  God  lives  it  is  true,"  she  answered.  "I  was 
afraid  I  had  loved  you  too  much.  I  was  afraid  you 
might  be  dead.  That  was  why  I  gave  my  wedding- 
ring — for  your  soul.  Look,  I  will  swear  it  to  you 
on  the  crucifix." 

She  went  to  the  wall  behind  the  bed  where  the 
crucifix  was  hanging.  She  lifted  her  hand  to  take 
it  down. 

There,  on  the  little  shelf  at  the  feet  of  the  wounded 
figure,  she  saw  her  wedding-ring. 

Her  hands  trembled  as  she  put  it  on  her  finger. 
Her  knees  trembled  as  she  went  back  to  Prosper 
and  sat  beside  him.  Her  voice  trembled  as  she 
said,  "Here  it  is, — He  has  given  it  back  to  us." 

A  river  of  shame  swept  over  him.  It  seemed  as 
if  chains  fell  from  his  heart.  He  drew  her  to  him. 
He  felt  her  bare  arms  around  his  neck.  Her  head 
fell  back,  her  eyes  closed,  her  lips  parted,  her  breath 

20 


THE   WEDDING-RING 

came  soft  and  quick.     He  waited  a  moment  before 
he  dared  to  kiss  her. 

"My  dove,"  he  whispered,  "the  sin  was  not  that 
you  loved  too  much,  but  that  I  loved  too  little." 


21 


MESSENGERS    AT    THE    WINDOW 

iHE  lighthouse  on  the  Isle  of  the  Wise  Virgin — 
formerly  called  the  Isle  of  Birds — still  looks  out  over 
the  blue  waters  of  the  Gulf  of  Saint  Lawrence;  its 
white  tower  motionless  through  the  day,  like  a  sea 
gull  sleeping  on  the  rock;  its  great  yellow  eye  wide- 
open  and  winking,  winking  steadily  once  a  minute, 
all  through  the  night.  And  the  birds  visit  the  island, 
— not  in  great  flocks  as  formerly,  but  still  plenty  of 
them, — long-winged  waterbirds  in  the  summer,  and 
in  the  spring  and  fall  short-winged  landbirds  passing 
in  their  migrations — the  children  and  grandchildren, 
no  doubt,  of  the  same  flying  families  that  used  to 
pass  there  fifty  years  ago,  in  the  days  when  Nataline 
Fortin  was  "The  Keeper  of  the  Light."  And  she 
herself,  that  brave  girl  who  said  that  the  light  was 
her  "law  of  God,"  and  who  kept  it,  though  it  nearly 
broke  her  heart — Nataline  is  still  guardian  of  the 
island  and  its  flashing  beacon  of  safety. 

25 


MESSENGERS   AT   THE    WINDOW 

Not  in  her  own  person,  you  understand,  for  her 
dark  curly  hair  long  since  turned  white,  and  her 
brown  eyes  were  closed,  and  she  was  laid  at  rest 
beside  her  father  in  the  little  graveyard  behind  the 
chapel  at  Dead  Men's  Point.  But  her  spirit  still 
inhabits  the  island  and  keeps  the  light.  The  son 
whom  she  bore  to  Marcel  Thibault  was  called  Bap- 
tiste,  after  her  father,  and  he  is  now  the  lighthouse- 
keeper;  and  her  granddaughter,  Nataline,  is  her 
living  image;  a  brown  darling  of  a  girl,  merry  and 
fearless,  who  plays  the  fife  bravely  all  along  the 
march  of  life. 

It  is  good  to  have  some  duties  in  the  world  which 
do  not  change,  and  some  spirits  who  meet  them  with 
a  proud  cheerfulness,  and  some  families  who  pass  on 
the  duty  and  the  cheer  from  generation  to  generation 
— aristocrats,  first  families,  the  best  blood. 

Nataline  the  second  was  bustling  about  the  kitch 
en  of  the  lighthouse,  humming  a  little  song,  as  I 
sat  there  with  my  friend  Baptiste,  snugly  sheltered 
from  the  night  fury  of  the  first  September  storm. 
The  sticks  of  sprucewood  snapped  and  crackled  in 
the  range;  the  kettle  purred  a  soft  accompaniment 

26 


MESSENGERS    AT   THE    WINDOW 

to  the  girl's  low  voice;  the  wind  and  the  rain  beat 
against  the  seaward  window.  I  was  glad  that  I  had 
given  up  the  trout  fishing,  and  left  my  camp  on  the 
Sainte-Marguerite-en-baSy  and  come  to  pass  a  couple 
of  days  with  the  Thibaults  at  the  lighthouse. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  quick  blow  on  the  window 
behind  me,  as  if  someone  had  thrown  a  ball  of  wet 
seaweed  or  sand  against  it.  I  leaped  to  my  feet  and 
turned  quickly,  but  saw  nothing  in  the  darkness. 

"It  is  a  bird,  m'sieu', "  said  Baptiste,  "only  a  little 
bird.  The  light  draws  them,  and  then  it  blinds 
them.  Most  times  they  fly  against  the  big  lantern 
above.  But  now  and  then  one  comes  to  this  window. 
In  the  morning  sometimes  after  a  big  storm  we  find 
a  hundred  dead  ones  around  the  tower. " 

"But,  oh,"  cried  Nataline,  "the  pity  of  it!  I 
can't  get  over  the  pity  of  it.  The  poor  little  one, — 
how  it  must  be  deceived, — to  seek  light  and  to  find 
death !  Let  me  go  out  and  look  for  it.  Perhaps  it 
is  not  dead." 

She  came  back  in  a  minute,  the  rain-drops  shining 
on  her  cheeks  and  in  her  hair.  In  the  hollow  of  her 
firm  hands  she  held  a  feathery  brown  little  body,  limp 

27 


MESSENGERS   AT    THE    WINDOW 

and  warm.  We  examined  it  carefully.  It  was 
stunned,  but  not  killed,  and  apparently  neither  leg 
nor  wing  was  broken. 

"It  is  a  white-throat  sparrow, "  I  said  to  Nataline, 
"you  know  the  tiny  bird  that  sings  all  day  in  the 
bushes,  sweet-sweet-Canada,  Canada,  Canada?" 

"But  yes!"  she  cried,  "he  is  the  dearest  of  them 
all.  He  seems  to  speak  to  you, — to  say,  '  be  happy. ' 
We  call  him  the  rossignol.  Perhaps  if  we  take  care 
of  him,  he  will  get  well,  and  be  able  to  fly  to-morrow 
— and  to  sing  again. " 

So  we  made  a  nest  in  a  box  for  the  little  creature, 
which  breathed  lightly,  and  covered  him  over  with 
a  cloth  so  that  he  should  not  fly  about  and  hurt  him 
self.  Then  Nataline  went  singing  up  to  bed,  for  she 
must  rise  at  two  in  the  morning  to  take  her  watch 
with  the  light.  Baptiste  and  I  drew  our  chairs  up 
to  the  range,  and  lit  our  pipes  for  a  good  talk. 

"Those  small  birds,  m'sieu',"  he  began,  puffing 
slowly  at  his  pipe,  "you  think,  without  doubt,  that 
it  is  all  an  affair  of  chance,  the  way  they  come, — that 
it  means  nothing, — that  it  serves  no  purpose  for  them 
to  die?" 

28 


MESSENGERS    AT   THE    WINDOW 

Certain  words  in  an  old  book,  about  a  sparrow 
falling  to  the  ground,  came  into  my  mind,  and  I  an 
swered  him  carefully,  hoping,  perhaps,  that  he  might 
be  led  on  into  one  of  those  mystical  legends  which 
still  linger  among  the  exiled  children  of  Britanny  in 
the  new  world. 

"From  our  side,  my  friend,  it  looks  like  chance — • 
and  from  the  birds'  side,  certainly,  like  a  very  bad 
chance.  But  we  do  not  know  all.  Perhaps  there 
is  some  meaning  or  purpose  beyond  us.  Who  can 
tell?" 

"I  will  tell  you,"  he  replied  gravely,  laying  down 
his  pipe,  and  leaning  forward  with  his  knotted  hands 
on  his  knees.  "I  will  tell  you  that  those  little  birds 
are  sometimes  the  messengers  of  God.  They  can 
bring  a  word  or  a  warning  from  Him.  That  is  what 
we  Bretons  have  believed  for  many  centuries  at 
home  in  France.  Why  should  it  not  be  true  here? 
Is  He  not  here  also?  Those  birds  are  God's  coureurs 
des  bois.  They  do  His  errands.  Would  you  like 
to  hear  a  thing  that  happened  in  this  house?" 

This  is  what  he  told  me. 


MESSENGERS   AT   THE    WINDOW 

I 

MY  father,  Marcel  Thibault,  was  an  honest  man, 
strong  in  the  heart,  strong  in  the  arms,  but,  in  the 
conscience, — well,  he  had  his  little  weaknesses,  like 
the  rest  of  us.  You  see  his  father,  the  old  Thibault 
lived  in  the  days  when  there  was  no  lighthouse  here, 
and  wrecking  was  the  chief  trade  of  this  coast. 

It  is  a  cruel  trade,  m'sieu' — to  live  by  the  misfor 
tune  of  others.  No  one  can  be  really  happy  who  lives 
by  such  a  trade  as  that.  But  my  father — he  was 
born  under  that  influence;  and  all  the  time  he  was  a 
boy  he  heard  always  people  talking  of  what  the  sea 
might  bring  to  them,  clothes  and  furniture,  and  all 
kinds  of  precious  things — and  never  a  thought  of 
what  the  sea  might  take  away  from  the  other  peo 
ple  who  were  shipwrecked  and  drowned.  So  what 
wonder  is  it  that  my  father  grew  up  with  weak  places 
and  holes  in  his  conscience? 

But  my  mother,  Nataline  Fortin — ah,  m'sieu',  she 
was  a  straight  soul,  for  sure — clean  white,  like  a  wild 
swan!  I  suppose  she  was  not  a  saint.  She  was  too 
fond  of  singing  and  dancing  for  that.  But  she  was 

30 


MESSENGERS    AT    THE    WINDOW 

a  good  woman,  and  nothing  could  make  her  happy 
that  came  from  the  misery  of  another  person.  Her 
idea  of  goodness  was  like  this  light  in  the  lantern 
above  us — something  faithful  and  steady  that  warns 
people  away  from  shipwreck  and  danger. 

Well,  it  happened  one  day,  about  this  time  forty- 
eight  years  ago,  just  before  I  was  ready  to  be  born, 
my  father  had  to  go  up  to  the  village  of  La  TrinitS 
on  a  matter  of  business.  He  was  coming  back  in  his 
boat  at  evening,  with  his  sail  up,  and  perfectly  easy 
in  his  mind — though  it  was  after  sunset — because  he 
knew  that  my  mother  was  entirely  capable  of  kin 
dling  the  light  and  taking  care  of  it  in  his  absence. 
The  wind  was  moderate,  and  the  sea  gentle.  He 
had  passed  the  Point  du  Caribou  about  two  miles, 
when  suddenly  he  felt  his  boat  strike  against  some 
thing  in  the  shadow. 

He  knew  it  could  not  be  a  rock.  There  was  no 
hardness,  no  grating  sound.  He  supposed  it  might 
be  a  tree  floating  in  the  water.  But  when  he  looked 
over  the  side  of  the  boat,  he  saw  it  was  the  body  of 
a  dead  man. 

The  face  was  bloated  and  blue,  as  if  the  man  had 
31 


MESSENGERS    AT    THE    WINDOW 

been  drowned  for  some  days.  The  clothing  was  fine, 
showing  that  he  must  have  been  a  person  of  quality; 
but  it  was  disarranged  and  torn,  as  if  he  had  passed 
through  a  struggle  to  his  death.  The  hands,  puffed 
and  shapeless,  floated  on  the  water,  as  if  to  balance 
the  body.  They  seemed  almost  to  move  in  an  effort 
to  keep  the  body  afloat.  And  on  the  little  finger  of 
the  left  hand  there  was  a  great  ring  of  gold  with  a  red 
stone  set  in  it,  like  a  live  coal  of  fire. 

When  my  father  saw  this  ring  a  passion  of  covet- 
ousness  leaped  upon  him. 

"It  is  a  thing  of  price,"  he  said,  "and  the  sea  has 
brought  it  to  me  for  the  heritage  of  my  unborn  child. 
What  good  is  a  ring  to  a  dead  man?  But  for  my 
baby  it  will  be  a  fortune. " 

So  he  luffed  the  boat,  and  reached  out  with  his  oar, 
and  pulled  the  body  near  to  him,  and  took  the  cold, 
stiff  hand  into  his  own.  He  tugged  at  the  ring,  but 
it  would  not  come  off.  The  finger  was  swollen  and 
hard,  and  no  effort  that  he  could  make  served  to 
dislodge  the  ring. 

Then  my  father  grew  angry,  because  the  dead 
man  seemed  to  withhold  from  him  the  bounty  of  the 

32 


MESSENGERS    AT   THE    WINDOW 

sea.  He  laid  the  hand  across  the  gunwale  of  the 
boat,  and,  taking  up  the  axe  that  lay  beside  him, 
with  a  single  blow  he  chopped  the  little  finger  from 
the  hand. 

The  body  of  the  dead  man  swung  away  from  the 
boat,  turned  on  its  side,  lifting  its  crippled  left  hand 
into  the  air,  and  sank  beneath  the  water.  My 
father  laid  the  finger  with  the  ring  upon  it  under  the 
thwart,  and  sailed  on,  wishing  that  the  boat  would 
go  faster.  But  the  wind  was  light,  and  before  he 
came  to  the  island  it  was  already  dark,  and  a  white 
creeping  fog,  very  thin  and  full  of  moonlight,  was 
spread  over  the  sea  like  a  shroud. 

As  he  went  up  the  path  to  the  house  he  was  try 
ing  to  pull  off  the  ring.  At  last  it  came  loose  in  his 
hand;  and  the  red  stone  was  as  bright  as  a  big  star 
on  the  edge  of  the  sky,  and  the  gold  was  heavy  in 
his  palm.  So  he  hid  the  ring  in  his  vest. 

But  the  finger  he  dropped  in  a  cluster  of  blue 
berry  bushes  not  far  from  the  path.  And  he  came 
into  the  house  with  a  load  of  joy  and  trouble  on  his 
soul;  for  he  knew  that  it  is  wicked  to  maim  the  dead, 
but  he  thought  also  of  the  value  of  the  ring. 

33 


MESSENGERS   AT    THE    WINDOW 

II 

MY  mother  Nataline  was  able  to  tell  when  peo 
ple's  souls  had  changed,  without  needing  to  wait 
for  them  to  speak.  So  she  knew  that  something 
great  had  happened  to  my  father,  and  the  first 
word  she  said  when  she  brought  him  his  supper 
•was  this: 

"How  did  it  happen?" 

"What  has  happened?"  said  he,  a  little  surprised, 
and  putting  down  his  head  over  his  cup  of  tea  to 
hide  his  face. 

"Well,"  she  said  in  her  joking  way,  "that  is  just 
what  you  haven't  told  me,  so  how  can  I  tell  you? 
But  it  was  something  very  bad  or  very  good,  I 
know.  Now  which  was  it?" 

"It  was  good,"  said  he,  reaching  out  his  hand  to 
cut  a  piece  from  the  loaf,  "it  was  as  good — as  good 
as  bread." 

"Was  it  by  land,"  said  she,  "or  was  it  by  sea?" 

He  was  sitting  at  the  table  just  opposite  that  win 
dow,  so  that  he  looked  straight  into  it  as  he  lifted  his 
head  to  answer  her. 

34 


MESSENGERS   AT    THE    WINDOW 

"It  was  by  sea,"  he  said  smiling,  "a  true  treasure 
of  the  deep. " 

Just  then  there  came  a  sharp  stroke  and  a  splash 
on  the  window,  and  something  struggled  and  scrab 
bled  there  against  the  darkness.  He  saw  a  hand 
with  the  little  finger  cut  off  spread  out  against  the 
pane. 

"My  God,"  he  cried,  "what  is  that?" 

But  my  mother,  when  she  turned,  saw  only  a 
splotch  of  wet  on  the  outside  of  the  glass. 

"It  is  only  a  bird,"  she  said,  "one  of  God's  mes 
sengers.  What  are  you  afraid  of?  I  will  go  out  and 
get  it. " 

She  came  back  with  a  cedar-bird  in  her  hand — 
one  of  those  brown  birds  that  we  call  recollets  be 
cause  they  look  like  a  monk  with  a  hood.  Her  face 
was  very  grave. 

"Look,"  she  cried,  "it  is  a  recollet.  He  is  only 
stunned  a  little.  Look,  he  flutters  his  wings,  we  will 
let  him  go — like  that!  But  he  was  sent  to  this  house 
because  there  is  something  here  to  be  confessed. 
What  is  it?" 

By  this  time  my  father  was  disturbed,  and  the 
35 


MESSENGERS   AT   THE   WINDOW 

trouble  was  getting  on  top  of  the  joy  in  his  soul. 
So  he  pulled  the  ring  out  of  his  vest  and  laid  it  on 
the  table  under  the  lamp.  The  gold  glittered,  and 
the  stone  sparkled,  and  he  saw  that  her  eyes  grew 
large  as  she  looked  at  it. 

"See,"  he  said,  "this  is  the  good  fortune  that  the 
waves  brought  me  on  the  way  home  from  La  Trinite. 
It  is  a  heritage  for  our  baby  that  is  coming. " 

"The  waves!"  she  cried,  shrinking  back  a  little. 
"How  could  the  waves  bring  a  heavy  thing  like  that? 
It  would  sink. " 

"It  was  floating,"  he  answered,  casting  about  in 
his  mind  for  a  good  lie;  "it  was  floating — about  two 
miles  this  side  of  the  Point  du  Caribou — it  was  float 
ing  on  a  piece  of 

At  that  moment  there  was  another  blow  on  the 
window,  and  something  pounded  and  scratched 
against  the  glass.  Both  of  them  were  looking  this 
time,  and  again  my  father  saw  the  hand  without  the 
little  finger — but  my  mother  could  see  only  a  blur 
and  a  movement. 

He  was  terrified,  and  fell  on  his  knees  praying.  She 
trembled  a  little,  but  stood  over  him  brave  and  stern. 

36 


MESSENGERS   AT   THE    WINDOW 

"What  is  it  that  you  have  seen,"  said  she;  "tell 
me,  what  has  made  you  afraid?" 

"A  hand,"  he  answered,  very  low,  "a  hand  on 
the  window. " 

"A  hand!"  she  cried,  "then  there  must  be  some 
one  waiting  outside.  You  must  go  and  let  him  in. " 

"Not  I,"  whispered  he,  "I  dare  not." 

Then  she  looked  at  him  hard,  and  waited  a  min 
ute.  She  opened  the  door,  peered  out,  trembled 
again,  crossed  the  threshold,  and  returned  with  the 
body  of  a  blackbird. 

"Look,"  she  cried,  "another  messenger  of  God — 
his  heart  is  beating  a  little.  I  will  put  him  here 
where  it  is  warm — perhaps  he  will  get  well  again. 
But  there  is  a  curse  coming  upon  this  house.  Con 
fess.  What  is  this  about  hands?" 

So  he  was  moved  and  terrified  to  open  his  secret 
half-way. 

"On  the  rocks  this  side  of  the  point,"  he  stam 
mered,  "as  I  was  sailing  very  slowly — there  was 
something  white — the  arm  and  hand  of  a  man — this 
ring  on  one  of  the  fingers.  Where  was  the  man? 
Drowned  and  lost.  What  did  he  want  of  the  ring? 

It  was  easy  to  pull  it 

37 


MESSENGERS    AT   THE    WINDOW 

As  he  said  this,  there  was  a  crash  at  the  window. 
The  broken  pane  tinkled  upon  the  floor.  In  the 
opening  they  both  saw,  for  a  moment,  a  hand  with 
the  little  finger  cut  off  and  the  blood  dripping  from  it. 

When  it  faded,  my  mother  Nataline  went  to 
the  window,  and  there  on  the  floor,  in  a  little  red 
pool,  she  found  the  body  of  a  dead  cross-bill,  all  torn 
and  wounded  by  the  glass  through  which  it  had 
crashed. 

She  took  it  up  and  fondled  it.  Then  she  gave  a 
great  sigh,  and  went  to  my  father  Marcel  and  kneeled 
beside  him. 

(You  understand,  m'sieu',  it  was  he  who  narrated 
all  this  to  me.  He  said  he  never  should  forget  a 
word  or  a  look  of  it  until  he  died — and  perhaps  not 
even  then.) 

So  she  kneeled  beside  him  and  put  one  hand  over 
his  shoulder,  the  dead  cross-bill  in  the  other. 

"Marcel,"  she  said,  "thou  and  I  love  each  other 
so  much  that  we  must  always  go  together — whether 
to  heaven  or  to  hell — and  very  soon  our  little  baby 
is  to  be  born.  Wilt  thou  l^ep  a  secret  from  me 
now?  Look,  this  is  the  last  messenger  at  the  window 
— the  blessed  bird  whose  bill  is  twisted  because  he 

38 


MESSENGERS   AT   THE    WINDOW 

tried  to  pull  out  the  nail  from  the  Saviour's  hand  on 
the  cross,  and  whose  feathers  are  always  red  because 
the  blood  of  Jesus  fell  upon  them.  It  is  a  message 
of  pardon  that  he  brings  us,  if  we  repent.  Come,  tell 
the  whole  of  the  sin. " 

At  this  the  heart  of  my  father  Marcel  was  melted 
within  him,  as  a  block  of  ice  is  melted  when  it  floats 
into  the  warmer  sea,  and  he  told  her  all  of  the  shame 
ful  thing  that  he  had  done. 

She  stood  up  and  took  the  ring  from  the  table 
with  the  ends  of  her  fingers,  as  if  she  did  not  like  to 
touch  it. 

"Where  hast  thou  put  it,"  she  asked,  "the  finger 
of  the  hand  from  which  this  thing  was  stolen?  " 

"It  is  among  the  bushes,"  he  answered,  "beside 
the  path  to  the  landing. " 

"Thou  canst  find  it,"  said  she,  "as  we  go  to  the 
boat,  for  the  moon  is  shining  and  the  night  is  still. 
Then  thou  shalt  put  the  ring  where  it  belongs,  and 
we  will  row  to  the  place  where  the  hand  is — dost  thou 
remember  it?" 

So  they  did  as  she  commanded.  The  sea  was 
very  quiet  and  the  moon  was  full.  They  rowed 

39 


MESSENGERS   AT   THE    WINDOW 

together  until  they  came  about  two  miles  from  the 
Point  du  Caribou,  at  a  place  which  Marcel  remem 
bered  because  there  was  a  broken  cliff  on  the  shore. 

When  he  dropped  the  finger,  with  the  great  ring 
glittering  upon  it,  over  the  edge  of  the  boat,  he 
groaned.  But  the  water  received  the  jewel  in  si 
lence,  with  smooth  ripples,  and  a  circle  of  light 
spread  away  from  it  under  the  moon,  and  my  mother 
Nataline  smiled  like  one  who  is  well  content. 

"Now,"  she  said,  "we  have  done  what  the  mes 
sengers  at  the  window  told  us.  We  have  given  back 
what  the  poor  man  wanted.  God  is  not  angry  with 
us  now.  But  I  am  very  tired — row  me  home,  for  I 
think  my  time  is  near  at  hand. " 

The  next  day,  just  before  sunset,  was  the  day  of 
my  birth.  My  mother  Nataline  told  me,  when  I 
was  a  little  boy,  that  I  was  born  to  good  fortune. 
And,  you  see,  m'sieu',  it  was  true,  for  I  am  the  keeper 
of  her  light. 


40 


THE  COUNTERSIGN  OF  THE 
CRADLE 


1  CANNOT  explain  to  you  the  connection  between 
the  two  parts  of  this  story.  They  were  divided,  in 
their  happening,  by  a  couple  of  hundred  miles  of 
mountain  and  forest.  There  were  no  visible  or 
audible  means  of  communication  between  the  two 
scenes.  But  the  events  occurred  at  the  same  hour, 
and  the  persons  who  were  most  concerned  in  them 
were  joined  by  one  of  those  vital  ties  of  human  affec 
tion  which  seem  to  elude  the  limitations  of  time  and 
space.  Perhaps  that  was  the  connection.  Perhaps 
love  worked  the  miracle.  I  do  not  know.  I  only 
tell  you  the  story. 


IT  begins  in  the  peaceful,  homely  village  of  Saint 
Gerome,  on  the  shore  of  Lake  Saint  John,  at  the 
edge  of  the  vast  northern  wilderness.  Here  was  the 

43 


COUNTERSIGN  OF  THE  CRADLE 

home  of  my  guide,  Pat  Mullarkey,  whose  name  was 
as  Irish  as  his  nature  was  French-Canadian,  and 
who  was  so  fond  of  children  that,  having  lost  his 
only  one,  he  was  willing  to  give  up  smoking  in  order 
to  save  money  for  the  adoption  of  a  baby  from  the 
foundling  asylum  at  Quebec.  How  his  virtue  was 
rewarded,  and  how  his  wife,  Angelique,  presented 
him  with  twins  of  his  own,  to  his  double  delight, 
has  been  told  in  another  story.  The  relation  of 
parentage  to  a  matched  brace  of  babies  is  likely  to 
lead  to  further  adventures. 

The  cradle,  of  course,  being  built  for  two,  was 
a  broad  affair,  and  little  Jacques  and  Jacqueline 
rolled  around  in  it  inextricably  mixed,  until  Pat 
had  the  ingenious  idea  of  putting  a  board  down 
the  middle  for  a  partition.  Then  the  infants  rocked 
side  by  side  in  harmony,  going  up  and  down  alter 
nately,  without  a  thought  of  debating  the  eternal 
question  of  superiority  between  the  sexes.  Their 
weight  was  the  same.  Their  dark  eyes  and  hair 
were  alike.  Their  voices,  whether  they  wept  or 
cooed,  were  indistinguishable.  Everybody  agreed 
that  a  finer  boy  and  girl  had  never  been  seen  in 

44 


COUNTERSIGN  OF  THE  CRADLE 

Saint  Gerome.  But  nobody  except  Pat  and  Ange- 
lique  could  tell  them  apart  as  they  swung  in  the 
cradle,  gently  rising  and  falling,  in  unconscious  illus 
tration  of  the  equivalence  and  balancing  of  male 
and  female. 

Angelique,  of  course,  was  particularly  proud  of 
the  boy.  As  he  grew,  and  found  his  feet,  and  began 
to  wander  about  the  house  and  the  front  yard,  with 
a  gait  in  which  a  funny  little  swagger  was  often 
interrupted  by  sudden  and  unpremeditated  down- 
sittings,  she  was  keen  to  mark  all  his  manly  traits. 

"Regard  him,  m'sieu',"  she  would  say  to  me 
when  I  dropped  in  at  the  cottage  on  my  way  home 
from  camp — "regard  this  little  brave.  Is  it  not  a 
boy  of  the  finest?  What  arms!  What  legs!  He 
walks  already  like  a  voyageur,  and  he  does  not  cry 
when  he  falls.  He  is  of  a  marvellous  strength,  and 
of  a  courage !  My  faith,  you  should  see  him  stand  up 
to  the  big  rooster  of  the  neighbour,  Pigot.  Come, 
my  little  one,  my  Jacques,  my  Jimmee,  one  day  you 
will  be  able  to  put  your  father  on  his  back — is  it 
not?" 

She  laughed,  and  Pat  laughed  with  her. 
45 


COUNTERSIGN  OF  THE  CRADLE 

"That  arrives  to  all  fathers,"  said  he,  catching 
the  little  Jacqueline  as  she  swayed  past  him  and 
swinging  her  to  his  knee.  "Soon  or  late  the  bon- 
homme  has  to  give  in  to  his  boy;  and  he  is  glad  of 
it.  But  for  me,  I  think  it  will  not  be  very  soon, 
and  meantime,  m'sieu',  cast  a  good  look  of  the  eye 
upon  this  girl.  Has  she  not  the  red  cheeks,  the 
white  teeth,  the  curly  hair,  brown  like  her  mother's? 
But  she  will  be  pretty,  I  tell  you!  And  clever  too, 
I  am  sure  of  it!  She  can  bake  the  bread,  and  sew, 
and  keep  the  house  clean;  she  can  read,  and  sing 
in  the  church,  and  drive  the  boys  crazy — hein,  my 
pretty  one — what  a  comfort  to  the  old  bonhomme  /" 

"He  goes  fast,"  laughed  Angelique;  "he  talks  al 
ready  as  if  she  were  in  long  dresses  with  her  hair 
done  up.  Without  doubt,  m'sieu'  amuses  himself 
to  hear  such  talk  about  two  infants." 

But  the  thing  that  amused  me  most  was  the 
beginning-to-talk  of  the  twins  themselves.  It  was 
natural  that  the  mother  and  father  should  speak  to 
me  in  their  quaint  French  patois;  and  the  practice 
of  many  summers  had  made  me  able  to  get  along 
with  it  fairly  well.  But  that  these  scraps  of  human- 

46 


COUNTERSIGN  OF  THE   CRADLE 

ity  should  begin  their  adventures  in  language  with 
French,  and  such  French,  old-fashioned  as  a  Breton 
song,  always  seemed  to  me  surprising  and  wonder 
fully  smart.  I  could  not  get  over  the  foolish  im 
pression  that  it  was  extraordinary.  There  is  some 
thing  magical  about  the  sound  of  a  baby  voice  bab 
bling  a  tongue  that  is  strange  to  you;  it  sets  you 
thinking  about  the  primary  difficulties  in  the  way 
of  human  intercourse  and  wondering  just  how  it 
was  that  people  began  to  talk  to  each  other. 

Long  before  the  twins  outgrew  their  French  baby 
talk  the  famous  cradle  was  too  small  to  hold  their 
sturdy  bodies,  and  they  were  promoted  to  a  trundle- 
bed  on  the  floor.  The  cradle  was  an  awkward  bit 
of  furniture  in  such  a  little  house,  and  Angelique 
was  for  giving  it  away  or  breaking  it  up  for  kindling- 
wood. 

"But  no!"  said  Pat.  "We  have  plenty  of  wood 
for  kindlings  in  this  country  without  burning  the 
cradle.  Besides,  this  wood  means  more  to  us  than 
any  old  tree — it  has  rocked  our  hopes.  Let  us  put 
it  in  the  corner  of  the  kitchen — what?  Come — 
perhaps  we  may  find  a  use  for  it,  who  knows?" 

47 


COUNTERSIGN  OF  THE   CRADLE 

"Go  along,"  said  Angelique,  giving  him  a  friendly 
box  on  the  ear,  "you  old  joker!  Off  with  you, 
vieux  bavasseur — put  the  cradle  where  you  like." 

So  there  it  stood,  in  the  corner  beside  the  stove, 
on  the  night  of  my  story.  Pat  had  gone  down  to 
Quebec  on  the  first  of  June  (three  days  ahead  of 
time)  to  meet  me  there  and  help  in  packing  the 
goods  for  a  long  trip  up  the  Peribonca  River.  An 
gelique  was  sleeping  the  sleep  of  the  innocent  and 
the  just  in  the  bedroom,  with  the  twins  in  their 
trundle-bed  beside  her,  and  the  door  into  the  kitchen 
half -open. 

What  it  was  that  waked  her  she  did  not  know — 
perhaps  a  bad  dream,  for  Pat  had  given  her  a  bit  of 
trouble  that  spring,  writh  a  sudden  inclination  for 
drinking  and  carousing,  and  she  was  uneasy  about 
his  long  absence.  A  man  in  the  middle  years  some 
times  has  a  bit  of  folly,  and  a  woman  worries  about 
him  without  knowing  exactly  why.  At  all  events, 
Angelique  came  wide  awake  in  the  night  with  a 
sense  of  fear  in  her  heart,  as  if  she  had  just  heard 
something  terrible  about  her  husband  which  she 
could  not  remember. 

48 


COUNTERSIGN  OF  THE  CRADLE 

She  listened  to  the  breathing  of  the  twins  in  the 
darkness.  It  was  soft  and  steady  as  the  falling  of 
tiny  ripples  upon  the  beach.  But  presently  she 
was  aware  of  a  louder  sound  in  the  kitchen.  It  was 
regular  and  even,  like  the  ticking  of  a  clock.  There 
was  a  roll  and  a  creak  in  it,  as  if  somebody  was 
sitting  in  the  rocking-chair  and  balancing  back  and 
forth. 

She  slipped  out  of  bed  and  opened  the  door  a 
little  wider.  There  was  a  faint  streak  of  moonlight 
slanting  through  the  kitchen  window,  and  she  could 
see  the  tall  back  of  the  chair,  with  its  red-and-white 
tidy,  vacant  and  motionless. 

In  the  corner  was  the  cradle,  with  the  children's 
clothes  hanging  over  the  head  of  it  and  their  two 
ragged  dolls  tucked  away  within.  It  was  rocking 
evenly  and  slowly,  as  if  moved  by  some  unseen 
force. 

Her  eyes  followed  the  ray  of  the  moon.  On  the 
rocker  of  the  cradle  she  saw  a  man's  foot  with  the 
turned-up  toe  of  a  botte  sauvage.  It  seemed  as  if 
the  smoke  of  a  familiar  pipe  was  in  the  room.  She 
heard  her  husband's  voice  softly  humming: 

49 


COUNTERSIGN  OF  THE   CRADLE 

"Petit  rocher  de  la  haute  montagne, 
Je  viens  finir  id  cette  campagne. 
Ah,  doux  echos,  entendez  rn.es  soupirs; 
En  languissant  je  vais  bientot  mourir!" 

Trembling,  she  entered  the  room,  with  a  cry  on 
her  lips. 

"Ah!  Pat,  mon  ami,  what  is  it?  How  earnest 
thou  here?" 

As  she  spoke,  the  cradle  ceased  rocking,  the  moon- 
ray  faded  on  the  bare  floor,  the  room  was  silent. 

She  fell  upon  her  knees,  sobbing. 

"My  God,  I  have  seen  his  double,  his  ghost.  My 
man  is  dead!" 

II 

IN  the  steep  street  of  Quebec  which  is  called 
"Side  of  the  Mountain,"  there  is  a  great  descending 
curve;  and  from  this  curve,  at  the  right,  there 
drops  a  break-neck  flight  of  steps,  leading  by  the 
shortest  way  to  the  Lower  Town. 

As  I  came  down  these  steps,  after  dining  com 
fortably  at  the  Chateau  Frontenac,  on  the  same 
night  when  Angelique  was  sleeping  alone  beside  the 

50 


COUNTERSIGN  OF  THE   CRADLE 

twins  in  the  little  house  of  Saint  Gerome,  I  was 
aware  of  a  merry  fracas  below  me  in  the  narrow  lane 
called  "Under  the  Fort."  The  gas  lamps  glimmered 
yellow  in  the  gulf;  the  old  stone  houses  almost 
touched  their  gray  foreheads  across  the  roadway; 
and  in  the  cleft  between  them  a  dozen  roystering 
companions,  men  and  girls,  were  shouting,  laughing, 
swearing,  quarrelling,  pushing  this  way  and  that 
way,  like  the  waves  on  a  turbulent  eddy  of  the  river 
before  it  decides  which  direction  to  follow.  In  the 
centre  of  the  noisy  group  was  a  big  fellow  with  a 
black  mustache. 

"I  tell  you,  my  boys,"  he  cried,  "we  go  to  the 
Rue  Champlain,  to  the  Moulin  Gris  of  old  Trudel. 
There  is  good  stuff  to  drink  there;  we'll  make  a 
night  of  it!  My  m'sieu'  comes  to  seek  me,  but  he 
will  not  find  me  until  to-morrow.  Shut  your  mouth, 
you  Louis.  What  do  we  care  for  the  police?  Come, 
Suzanne,  marchons!" 

Then  he  broke  out  into  song: 

"Ce  n'est  point  du  raisin  pourri, 
C'est  le  bon  vin  qui  danse! 
C'cst  le  bon  vin  qui  danse  ici, 
C'cst  le  bon  vin  qui  danse!" 
51 


COUNTERSIGN  OF  THE   CRADLE 

% 

Even  through  its  too  evident  disguise  in  liquor  I 
knew  the  voice  of  my  errant  Pat.  Would  it  be  wise 
to  accost  him  at  such  a  moment,  in  such  company? 
The  streets  of  the  Lower  Town  were  none  too  peace 
ful  after  dark.  And  yet,  if  he  were  not  altogether 
out  of  his  head,  it  would  be  a  good  thing  to  stop  him 
from  going  further  and  getting  into  trouble.  At 
least  it  was  worth  trying. 

"Good-evening,  Pat,"  I  cried. 

He  turned  as  if  a  pebble  had  struck  him,  and  saw 
me  standing  under  the  flickering  lamp.  He  stared 
for  a  moment  in  bewilderment,  then  a  smile  came 
over  his  face,  and  he  pulled  off  his  hat. 

"There  is  my  m'sieu',"  he  said;  "my  faith,  but 
that  is  droll!  You  go  on,  you  others.  I  must  speak 
to  him  a  little.  See  you  later — Rue  Champlain — 
the  old  place." 

The  befogged  company  rolled  away  in  the  dark 
ness  and  Pat  rolled  over  to  me.  His  greeting  was  a 
bit  unsteady,  but  his  natural  politeness  and  good- 
fellowship  did  not  fail  him. 

"But  how  I  am  happy  to  see  m'sieu'!"  said  he; 
"it  is  a  little  sooner  than  I  expected,  but  so  much 

the  better!     And  how  well  m'sieu'  carries  himself — 

52 


COUNTERSIGN  OF  THE   CRADLE 

in  full  health,  is  it  not?  You  have  the  air  of  it — all 
ready  for  the  Peribonca,  I  suppose?  Bateche,  that 
will  be  a  great  voyage,  and  we  shall  have  plenty  of 
the  good  luck." 

"Yes,"  I  answered,  "it  looks  to  me  like  a  good 
trip,  if  we  get  started  right.  I  want  to  talk  with 
you  about  it.  Can  you  leave  your  friends  for  a 
while?" 

His  face  reddened  visibly  under  its  dark  coat  of 
tan,  and  he  stammered  as  he  replied: 

"But  certainly,  m'sieu' — they  are  not  my  friends 
— that  is  to  say — well,  I  know  them  a  little — they 
can  wait — I  am  perfectly  at  the  service  of  m'sieu'." 

So  we  walked  around  the  corner  into  the  open 
square  (which,  by  the  way,  is  shaped  like  a  triangle), 
at  one  side  of  which  there  is  an  old-fashioned  French 
hotel,  with  a  double  galerie  across  its  face,  and  green- 
shuttered  windows.  There  were  tables  in  front  of 
it,  and  at  one  of  these  I  invited  Pat  to  join  me  in 
having  some  coffee. 

His  conversation  at  first  was  decidedly  vague 
and  woolly,  though  polite  as  ever.  There  was  a 
thickness  about  his  words  as  if  they  were  a  little 

53 


COUNTERSIGN  OF  THE   CRADLE 

swollen,  and  his  ideas  had  loose  edges,  and  would 
not  fit  together.  However,  he  did  his  best  to  pull 
himself  up  and  make  good  talk.  But  his  r's  rolled 
like  an  unstrung  drum,  and  his  n's  twanged  like  a 
cracked  banjo.  On  the  subject  of  the  proper  amount 
of  provisions  to  take  with  us  for  our  six  weeks' 
camping  trip  he  wandered  wildly.  Without  doubt 
wre  must  take  enough — in  grand  quantity — one 
must  live  well — else  one  could  not  carry  the  load 
on  the  portages — very  long  portages — not  good  for 
heavy  packs — wre  must  take  very  little  stuff- 
small  rations,  a  little  pork  and  flour — we  can  get 
plenty  to  eat  with  our  guns  and  m'sieu's  rod — a 
splendid  country  for  sport — and  those  little  fishes 
in  tin  boxes  which  m'sieu'  loves  so  well — for  sure 
we  must  take  plenty  of  them! 

It  was  impossible  to  get  anything  definite  out  of 
him  in  regard  to  the  outfit  of  the  camp,  and  I  knew 
it  beforehand;  but  I  wanted  to  keep  him  talking 
while  the  coffee  got  in  its  good  work,  and  I  knew 
that  his  courtesy  would  not  let  him  break  awray 
while  I  was  asking  questions.  By  the  time  I  had 
poured  him  the  second  cup  of  the  black  brain- 

54 


COUNTERSIGN  OF  THE   CRADLE 

clearer  he  was  distinctly  more  steady.     His  laugh 
was  quieter  and  his  eyes  grew  more  thoughtful. 

"And  the  bread,"  said  I;  "we  must  carry  two  or 
three  loaves  of  good  habitant  bread,  just  for  the  first 
week  out.  I  can't  do  without  that.  Do  you  sup 
pose,  by  any  chance,  that  Angelique  would  bake  it 
for  us?  Or  perhaps  those  lady  friends  of  yours  who 
have  just  left  you — eh?  " 

A  look  of  shame  and  protest  flushed  in  Pat's  face. 
He  dropped  his  head,  and  lifted  it  again,  glancing 
quickly  at  me  to  read  a  hidden  meaning  in  the 
question.  Then  he  turned  away  and  stared  across 
the  square  toward  the  slender  spire  of  the  little 
church  at  the  other  end. 

"I  assure  you,"  he  said  slowly,  "they  are  not  of 
my  friends,  those — those — bah!  what  do  those  peo 
ple  know  about  making  bread?  I  beg  m'sieu'  not 
to  speak  of  those  girls  there  in  the  same  breath 
with  my  Angelique!" 

"Good!"  I  answered.  "Pardon  me,  I  will  not 
do  it  again.  I  did  not  understand.  They  are  bad 
people,  I  suppose.  But  how  are  you  so  thick  with 
them?" 

55 


COUNTERSIGN  OF  THE   CRADLE 

"If  they  are  bad,"  said  he,  shrugging  his  shoulders 

-"if  they  are  bad!  But  why  should  I  judge  them? 
That  is  God's  affair.  There  are  all  kinds  of  people 
in  His  world.  I  do  not  like  it  that  m'sieu'  has  found 
me  with  that  kind.  But  a  man  must  make  a  little 
fun  sometimes,  you  comprehend,  and  sometimes  he 
makes  himself  a  damn  fool,  do  you  see?  I  have  been 
with  those  people  last  night  and  to-day — and  now 
I  have  promised — I  have  won  the  money  of  Pierre 
Goujon,  and  he  must  have  his  revenge — and  I  have 
promised  that  Suzanne  Gravel — well,  I  must  keep 
my  word  of  honour  and  go  to  them  for  to-night. 
M'sieu'  will  excuse  me  now?" 

He  rose  from  the  table,  but  I  sat  still. 

"Wait  a  moment,"  I  said;  "there  is  no  hurry. 
Let  us  have  another  pot  of  coffee  and  some  of  those 
little  cakes  with  melted  white  sugar  on  them,  like 
Angelique  used  to  make."  (He  started  slightly  at 
the  name.)  "Come,  sit  down  again.  I  want  you 
to  tell  me  something  about  that  pretty  old  church 
across  the  square.  See  how  the  moonlight  sparkles 
on  the  tin  spire.  What  is  the  name  of  it?" 

"Our  Lady  of  the  Victories,"  he  answered,  seat- 
56 


COUNTERSIGN  OF  THE   CRADLE 

ing  himself  unwillingly.  "They  say  it  is  the  most 
old  of  the  churches  of  Quebec." 

"It  is  a  fine  name,"  said  I.  "What  does  it  mean? 
What  victories?" 

"The  French  over  the  English,  I  suppose,  long 
ago.  It  does  not  interest  me  now.  I  must  be  on 
my  road  to  the  Moulin  Gris." 

"Will  you  stop  on  your  way  to  say  a  prayer  at 
the  door  of  the  church  of  Our  Lady  of  the  Vic 
tories?" 

His  eyes  dropped  and  he  shook  his  head. 

"Well,  then,  on  your  way  back  in  the  morning 
perhaps  you  will  stop  at  the  church  and  go  in  to 
confess?" 

He  nodded  his  head  and  spoke  heavily.  "Who 
knows?  Perhaps  yes — perhaps  no.  There  may  be 
fighting  to-night.  Pierre  is  very  mad  and  ugly.  I 
am  not  afraid.  But  it  is  evident  that  m'sieu'  makes 
the  conversation  to  detain  me.  We  are  old  friends. 
Why  not  speak  frank?" 

"Old  friends  we  are,  Pat,  and  frank  it  is.  I  do 
not  want  you  to  go  to  the  Gray  Mill.  You  have 
been  drinking — stronger  stuff  than  coffee.  Those 

57 


COUNTERSIGN  OF  THE   CRADLE 

people  will  pluck  you,  do  you  up,  perhaps  stick  a 
knife  in  you.  Then  what  will  become  of  Angelique 
and  the  twins?  Stay  here  a  while;  I  want  to  talk 
to  you  about  the  twins.  How  are  they?  You  have 
not  told  me  a  word  about  them  yet." 

His  face  sombred  and  brightened  again.  He 
poured  himself  another  cup  of  coffee  and  put  in 
three  spoonfuls  of  sugar,  smiling  as  he  stirred  it. 

"Ah,"  said  he,  "that  is  something  good  to  speak 
of — those  twins!  It  is  easily  seen  that  m'sieu' 
knows  how  to  make  the  conversation.  I  could  talk 
of  those  twins  for  a  long  time.  They  are  better 
than  ever — strong,  fat,  and  good — and  pretty,  too 
— you  may  believe  it!  I  pretend  to  make  nothing 
of  the  boy,  just  to  tease  my  wife;  and  she  pretends 
to  make  nothing  of  the  girl,  just  to  tease  me.  But 
they  are  a  pair — I  tell  you,  a  pair  of  marvels!" 

He  went  on  telling  me  about  their  growth,  their 
adventures,  their  clever  tricks,  as  if  the  subject  were 
inexhaustible.  I  offered  him  a  cigar.  But  no,  he 
preferred  his  pipe — with  a  pipee  of  the  good  tobacco 
from  the  Upper  Town,  if  I  would  oblige  him?  The 
smoke  wreaths  curled  over  our  heads.  The  other 

58 


COUNTERSIGN  OF  THE   CRADLE 

tables  were  gradually  deserted.  The  sleepy  waiter 
had  received  payment  for  the  coffee  and  cleared 
away  the  cups.  The  moon  slipped  behind  the  lofty 
cliff  of  the  Citadel,  and  the  little  square  lay  in  soft 
shadow  with  the  church  spire  shining  dimly  above 
it.  Pat  continued  the  memoir es  intimes  of  Jacques 
and  Jacqueline. 

"And  the  cradle,"  I  asked,  "that  famous  cradle 
built  for  two — what  has  become  of  it?  Doubtless 
it  exists  no  more." 

"But  it  is  there,"  he  cried  warmly.  "Angelique 
said  it  was  in  the  way,  but  I  persuaded  her  to 
keep  it.  You  see,  perhaps  we  might  need  it — what? 
Ha,  ha,  that  would  be  droll.  But  anyway  it  is  good 
for  the  twins  to  put  their  dolls  to  sleep  in.  It  is  a 
cradle  so  easy  to  rock.  You  do  not  need  to  touch 
it  with  your  hand.  It  goes  like  this." 

He  put  out  his  right  foot  with  its  botte  sauvage, 
the  round  toe  turned  up,  the  low  heel  resting  on  the 
ground,  and  moved  it  slowly  down  and  up  as  if  it 
pressed  an  unseen  rocker. 

"Comme  fa,  msieu"  he  said.  "It  demands  no 
effort,  only  the  tranquillity  of  soul.  One  can  smoke 

59 


COUNTERSIGN  OF  THE   CRADLE 

a  little,  one  can  sing,  one  can  dream  of  the  days  to 
come.  That  is  a  pleasant  inn  to  stay  at — the  Sign 
of  the  Cradle.  How  many  good  hours  I  have  passed 
there — the  happiest  of  my  life — I  thank  God  for 
them.  I  can  never  forget  them." 

A  crash  as  of  sudden  thunder — a  ripping,  rending 
roar  of  swift,  unknown  disaster — filled  the  air,  and 
shook  the  quiet  houses  around  our  Lady  of  the 
Victories  with  nameless  terror.  After  it,  ten  seconds 
of  thrilling  silence,  and  then  the  distant  sound  of 
shrieking  and  wailing.  We  sprang  to  our  feet, 
trembling  and  horror-stricken. 

" It  is  in  the  Rue  Champlain,"  cried  Pat.  "  Come ! " 
We  darted  across  the  square,  turned  a  corner  to 
the  right,  a  corner  to  the  left,  and  ran  down  the  long 
dingy  street  that  skirts  the  foot  of  the  precipice  on 
which  the  Citadel  is  enthroned.  The  ramshackle 
houses,  grey  and  grimy,  huddled  against  the  cliff 
that  frowned  above  them  with  black  scorn  and  men 
ace.  High  against  the  stars  loomed  the  impregnable 
walls  of  the  fortress.  Low  in  the  shadow  crouched 
the  frail  habitations  of  the  poor,  the  miserable  tene 
ments,  the  tiny  shops,  the  dusky  drinking-dens. 

60 


COUNTERSIGN  OF  THE   CRADLE 

The  narrow  way  was  already  full  of  distracted 
people — some  running  toward  us  to  escape  from 
danger — some  running  with  us  to  see  what  had 
happened. 

"The  Gray  Mill,"  gasped  my  comrade;  "a  hun 
dred  yards  farther — come  on — we  must  get  there 
at  all  hazards!  Push  through!" 

When  we  came  at  last  to  the  place,  there  was  a 
gap  in  the  wall  of  houses  that  leaned  against  the 
cliff;  a  horrible  confusion  of  shattered  roofs  and  walls 
hurled  across  the  street;  and  above  it  an  immense 
scar  on  the  face  of  the  precipice.  Ten  thousand 
tons  of  rock,  loosened  secretly  by  the  frost  and  the 
rain,  had  plunged  without  warning  on  the  doomed 
habitations  below  and  buried  the  Gray  Mill  in  over 
whelming  ruin. 

Pat  trembled  like  a  branch  caught  among  the 
rocks  in  a  swift  current  of  the  river.  He  buried 
his  face  in  his  hands. 

"My  God,"  he  muttered,  "was  it  as  close  as  that? 
How  was  I  spared?  My  God,  pardon  for  all  poor 
sinners ! " 

We  worked  for  hours  among  the  houses  that  had 
61 


COUNTERSIGN  OF  THE   CRADLE 

been  more  lightly  struck  and  where  there  was  still 
hope  of  rescuing  the  wounded.  The  Church  of  Our 
Lady  of  the  Victories  was  quickly  opened  to  receive 
them,  and  the  priests  ministered  to  the  suffering 
and  the  dying  as  wre  carried  them  in. 

As  the  pale  dawn  crept  through  the  narrow  win 
dows,  I  saw  Pat  rise  from  his  knees  at  the  altar  and 
come  down  the  aisle  to  stand  with  me  in  the  doorway. 

"Well,"  said  I,  "it  is  all  over,  and  here  we  are  in 
the  church  this  morning,  after  all." 

"Yes,"  he  answered;  "it  is  the  best  place.  It  is 
where  we  all  need  to  come.  I  have  given  my  money 
to  the  priest — it  was  not  mine — I  have  left  it  all 
for  prayers  to  be  said  for  the  poor  souls  of  those — 
of  those — those  friends  of  mine." 

He  brought  out  the  words  with  brave  humility, 
an  avowal  and  a  plea  for  pardon. 

"We  must  send  a  telegram,"  I  said,  putting  my 
hand  on  his  shoulder.  "Angelique  will  be  fright 
ened  if  she  hears  of  this.  We  must  tranquillise  her. 
How  will  this  do?  'Safe  and  well.  Coming  home 
to-morrow  to  you  and  twins.'  That  makes  just  ten 
words." 


COUNTERSIGN   OF  THE   CRADLE 

"  It  is  perfectly  correct,  m'sieu',"  he  replied  gravely. 
"She  will  be  glad  to  get  that  message.  But — if  it 
would  not  cost  too  much — only  a  few  words  more, 
—I  should  like  to  put  in  something  to  say,  'God 
bless  you  and  forgive  me.'" 


63 


HALF-TOLD  TALES 

THE  KEY  OF  THE  TOWER 

THE  RIPENING  OF  THE  FRUIT 

THE  KING'S  JEWEL 


THE  KEY 
of  ike 

TOWER 


»jO  the  first  knight  came  to  the  Tower.  Now  his 
name  was  Casse-Tout,  because  wherever  he  came 
there  was  much  breaking  of  things  that  stood  in 
his  way.  And  when  he  saw  that  the  door  of  the 
Tower  was  shut  (for  it  was  very  early  in  the  morn 
ing,  and  all  the  woods  lay  asleep  in  the  shadow, 
and  only  the  weather-cock  on  the  uppermost  gable 
of  the  roof  was  turning  in  the  light  wind  of  dawn), 
it  seemed  to  him  that  the  time  favoured  a  bold  deed 
and  a  masterful  entrance. 

He  laid  hold  of  the  door,  therefore,  and  shook 
it;  but  the  door  would  not  give.  Then  he  set  his 
shoulder  to  it  and  thrust  mightily;  but  the  door 
did  not  so  much  as  creak.  Whereupon  he  began 
to  hammer  against  it  with  his  gloves  of  steel,  and 

67 


THE  KEY  OF  THE  TOWER 

shouted  with  a  voice  as  if  the  master  were  sud 
denly  come  home  to  his  house  and  found  it  barred. 
When  he  was  quite  out  of  breath,  between  his 
shoutings  he  was  aware  of  a  small,  merry  noise  as 
of  one  laughing  and  singing.  So  he  listened,  and 
this  is  what  he  heard: 

"  Hark  to  the  wind  in  the  wood  without! 

I  laugh  in  my  bed  while  I  hear  him  roar, 
Blustering,  bellowing,  shout  after  shout, — 
What  do  you  want,  O  wind,  at  my  door?" 

Then  he  cried  loudly:  "No  wind  am  I,  but  a 
mighty  knight,  and  your  door  is  shut.  I  must 
come  in  to  you  and  that  speedily!"  But  the  sing 
ing  voice  answered: 

"  Blow  your  best,  you  can  do  no  more; 
Batter  away,  for  my  door  is  stout; 
The  more  you  threaten,  I  laugh  the  more — 
Hark  to  the  wind  in  the  wood  without!" 

So  he  hammered  a  while  longer  at  the  oaken 
panels  until  he  was  wearifully  wroth,  and  when 
the  sun  was  rising  he  went  his  way  with  sore  hands 
and  a  sullen  face. 

68 


THE  KEY  OF  THE  TOWER 

"No  doubt,"  said  he,  "there  is  a  she-devil  in  the 
Tower.  I  hate  those  who  put  their  trust  in  brute 
strength." 

It  was  mid-morn  when  there  came  a  second 
knight  to  the  Tower,  whose  name  was  Parle-Doux. 
And  he  was  very  gentle-spoken,  and  full  of  favour 
able  ways,  smiling  always  when  he  talked,  but  his 
eyes  were  cool  and  ever  watchful.  So  he  made  his 
horse  prance  delicately  before  the  Tower,  and  looked 
up  at  the  windows  with  a  flattering  face; 

"Fair  house,"  said  he,  "how  well  art  thou  fash 
ioned,  and  with  what  beauty  does  the  sunlight 
adorn  thee!  Here  dwells  the  wonder  of  the  world, 
the  lady  of  all  desires,  the  princess  of  my  good  for 
tune.  Would  that  she  might  look  upon  me  and 
see  that  the  happy  hour  has  come!" 

Then  there  was  a  little  sound  at  one  of  the  upper 
windows,  and  the  lattice  clicked  open.  But  the 
lady  who  stood  there  was  closely  covered  with  a 
jewelled  veil,  and  nothing  could  be  seen  of  her 
but  her  hand,  with  many  rings  upon  it,  holding 
a  key. 

"Marvel  of  splendour,"  said  Parle-Doux,  "moon 
69 


THE  KEY  OF  THE  TOWER 

of  beauty,  jewel  of  all  ladies!  I  have  won  you  to 
look  upon  me,  now  let  fall  the  key." 

"And  then?"  said  the  lady. 

"Then,  surely,"  said  the  knight,  "I  will  open  the 
door  without  delay,  and  spring  up  the  stairs,  winged 
with  joy,  and " 

But  before  he  had  finished  speaking,  with  the 
smile  on  his  face,  the  hand  was  drawn  back,  and 
the  lattice  clicked  shut. 

So  the  knight  sang  and  talked  very  beautifully 
for  about  the  space  of  three  hours  in  front  of  the 
Tower.  And  when  he  rode  away  it  was  just  as  it 
had  been  before,  only  the  afternoon  shadows  were 
falling. 

A  little  before  sunset  came  the  third  knight,  and 
his  name  was  Fais-Brave. 

Now  the  cool  of  the  day  had  called  all  the  birds 
to  their  even-song,  and  the  flowers  in  the  garden 
were  yielding  up  their  sweetness  to  the  air,  and 
through  the  wood  Twilight  was  walking  with  silent 
steps. 

So  the  knight  looked  well  at  the  Tower,  and  saw 
that  all  the  windows  were  open,  though  the  door 

70 


THE  KEY  OF  THE  TOWER 

was  shut,  and  on  the  grass  before  it  lay  a  jewelled 
veil.  And  after  a  while  of  looking  and  waiting  and 
thinking  and  wondering,  he  got  down  from  his 
horse,  and  took  off  the  saddle  and  bridle,  and  let 
him  go  free  to  wander  and  browse  in  the  wood. 
Then  the  knight  sat  down  on  a  little  green  knoll 
before  the  Tower,  and  made  himself  comfortable, 
as  one  who  had  a  thought  of  continuing  in  that 
place  for  a  certain  time. 

And  after  the  sun  was  set,  when  the  longest 
shadows  flowed  into  dusk,  the  lady  came  walking 
out  of  the  wood  toward  the  Tower.  She  was  lightly 
singing  to  herself  a  song  of  dreams.  Her  face  was 
uncovered,  and  the  gold  of  her  hair  was  clear  as 
the  little  floating  clouds  high  in  the  West,  and  her 
eyes  were  like  stars.  When  the  knight  saw  her  he 
stood  up  and  could  say  nothing.  But  all  the  more  he 
looked  at  her,  and  wondered,  and  his  thoughts  were 
written  in  his  face  as  if  they  stood  in  an  open  book. 

Long  time  they  looked  at  each  other  thus;  and 
then  the  lady  held  out  her  hand  with  a  key  in  it. 

"What  will  you  do  with  this  key?"  said  she,  "if 
I  give  it  to  you?" 

71 


THE  KEY  OF  THE  TOWER 

"Is  it  the  key  of  your  Tower?"  said  he. 
"Ay!"  said  she. 

"I  will  give  it  back  to  you,"  said  he,  "until  it 
pleases  you  to  open  the  door." 
"It  is  yours,"  said  she. 


THE     RIPENING 
OF    THE    FR.UIT 


J.HE  righteousness  of  Puramitra  was  notorious, 
and  it  was  evident  to  all  that  he  had  immense  faith 
in  his  gods.  He  was  as  strict  in  the  performance 
of  his  devotions  as  in  the  payment  of  his  debts, 
nor  was  there  any  altar,  whether  of  Brahma,  or  of 
Vishnu,  or  of  Shiva,  at  which  he  failed  to  offer  both 
prayers  and  gifts.  He  observed  the  rules  of  re 
ligion  and  of  business  with  admirable  regularity, 
and  enjoyed  the  reputation  of  one  whose  conduct 
was  above  reproach. 

But,  being  a  self-contained  man,  he  had  not  the 
love  of  the  little  children  of  the  village,  to  whom 

73 


THE  RIPENING  OF  THE  FRUIT 

he  often  gave  sweetmeats  and  toys;  and  being  a 
very  prosperous  man,  he  was  not  without  rivals 
and  detractors,  who  liked  his  prosperity  the  less 
the  more  they  marvelled  at  it.  This  was  displeas 
ing  to  Puramitra,  though  he  thought  it  beneath  him 
to  show  it. 

"If  all  were  known!"  said  some  people,  wag 
ging  their  heads  sagely,  as  if  they  were  full  of  secret 
and  discreditable  information. 

"If  we  only  had  his  luck,"  said  others,  sighing. 

But  when  Puramitra  heard  of  these  things  he 
said,  "The  fruits  of  earth  ripen  by  the  will  of  Heaven 
and  the  harvest  is  on  the  lap  of  the  gods." 

So  saying,  he  made  the  sign  of  reverence,  and 
went  his  way  calmly  to  a  certain  place  in  his  garden, 
where  he  was  accustomed  to  practise  the  virtue  of 
meditation  and  to  review  his  inmost  thoughts. 

Now  the  inmost  thoughts  of  Puramitra  were  in 
the  shape  of  wishes  and  strong  desires;  for  which 
reason,  being  a  religious  man,  he  often  called  them 
prayers.  They  were  concerned  chiefly  with  him 
self.  And  next  to  that,  with  two  others:  Indranu, 
his  friend,  and  Vishnamorsu,  his  enemy. 

74 


THE  RIPENING  OF  THE  FRUIT 

But  the  motions  of  friendship  are  quiet  and 
slow,  and  much  the  same  from  day  to  day;  whereas 
the  motions  of  hatred  are  quick  and  stirring,  and 
changeful  as  the  colors  on  a  serpent.  So  Pura- 
mitra  came  to  think  less  and  less  of  his  friend,  and 
more  and  more  of  his  enemy.  Every  day  he  re 
turned  at  sundown  to  the  retired  place  in  the  gar 
den,  where  an  orange-tree  shaded  his  favourite  seat 
with  thick,  glossy  leaves,  and  surrendered  himself 
to  those  meditations  in  which  his  desires  were  laid 
bare  to  his  gods. 

At  first  he  gave  a  thought  to  Indranu,  who  had 
helped  him,  and  served  him,  and  always  spoken 
well  of  him;  and  this  thought  he  called  love.  Then 
he  gave  many  thoughts  to  Vishnamorsu,  who 
had  opposed  him,  and  thwarted  him,  and  mocked 
him  with  bitter  words  and  laughter;  and  these 
thoughts  he  called  just  indignation.  He  reflected 
upon  the  many  misdeeds  and  offences  of  his  enemy 
with  a  grave  and  serious  passion.  He  considered 
curiously  the  various  punishments  which  these  mis 
demeanours  must  merit  at  the  hand  of  Heaven,  such 
as  poverty  and  pain  and  disgrace  and  death,  and, 

75 


THE  RIPENING  OF  THEFRUIT 

after  that,  all  the  thirty-nine  degrees  of  damna 
tion;  he  turned  them  over  in  his  mind  like  a  hollow 
ball  with  rings  carved  within  it,  and  they  played 
one  into  another  smoothly  and  intricately,  and  at 
the  centre  of  the  rings  a  little  black  figure  with 
the  face  of  Vishnamorsu  writhed  and  twisted. 

While  Puramitra  meditated  thus  upon  the  jus 
tice  of  the  gods  and  the  ill-deserts  of  his  enemy, 
the  tree  grew  and  flourished  above  him  from  week 
to  month  and  from  month  to  year,  spreading  out 
its  arms  to  hide  and  befriend  his  devotions.  The 
white  flowers  bloomed  and  faded  with  heavy  fra 
grance.  The  pale-green  fruits  formed  and  fell  from 
the  tree  before  their  time.  But  of  all  their  many 
promises  one  persisted,  clinging  to  the  lowest  bough, 
rounding  and  ripening  among  the  dark  leaves  with 
strange  flame  and  lustre — a  fiery  globe,  intense  and 
perfect  as  Puramitra's  thought  of  his  enemy. 

"You  meditate  much,  my  son,"  said  a  Brahman 
who  knew  him  well  and  sometimes  visited  his  gar 
den. 

"Holy  one,"  he  answered,  "I  pray." 

"For  what?"  asked  the  Brahman. 
76 


THE  RIPENING  OF  THE  FRUIT 

"That  the  divine  will  may  be  done  in  all  ways 
and  upon  all  things,"  replied  Puramitra. 

"Then  why  have  you  been  at  pains  to  poison 
your  tree?"  asked  the  Brahman. 

"I  did  not  know,"  said  the  man,  "that  I  had 
done  anything  to  the  tree." 

"Look,"  said  the  Brahman,  and  he  touched  the 
fruit  with  the  end  of  his  staff.  A  drop  oozed  from 
the  saffron  globe,  red  as  blood;  and  where  it  fell 
the  grass  withered  as  if  a  flame  had  scorched  it. 
Then  the  heart  of  Puramitra  leaped  up  within  him, 
for  he  knew  that  his  inmost  thoughts  had  passed 
into  the  course  of  nature  and  fructified  upon  the 
tree. 

"Most  excellent  Brahman,"  said  he,  with  great 
humility,  "the  fruits  of  earth  ripen  by  the  will  of 
Heaven." 

"For  whom  is  this  one  intended?"  asked  the 
Brahman. 

"Holiness,"  said  Puramitra,  "it  is  on  the  lap  of 
the  gods." 

So  the  Brahman  pursued  his  way,  and  Puramitra 
his  meditations. 

77 


THE  RIPENING  OF  THE  FRUIT 

The  next  day  he  ordered  an  open  path  made 
through  his  gardens  for  the  pleasure  and  comfort 
of  the  neighbours.  The  glistening  fruit  hung  above 
the  path,  ripe  and  ruddy. 

"It  is  on  the  lap  of  the  gods,"  thought  Pura- 
mitra;  "if  the  evil-doer  stretches  forth  his  hand 
to  it,  the  justice  of  Heaven  will  appear."  So  he 
hid  among  the  bushes  at  nightfall,  and  expected 
the  event. 

A  man  crept  slowly  along  the  path  and  stayed 
beneath  the  tree.  His  face  was  concealed  by  a 
cloak;  but  the  watcher  said,  "I  shall  know  him  by 
his  actions,  for  my  enemy  will  not  respect  that 
which  is  mine."  Now  the  man  was  thinking  shame 
and  scorn  of  the  rich  owner  of  the  garden,  and  de 
spising  the  prosperity  of  wiles  and  wickedness.  So 
he  hated  and  contemned  the  fruit,  saying  to  him 
self,  "God  forbid  that  I  should  touch  anything 
that  belongs  to  the  wretch  Puramitra."  And  the 
path  grew  darker. 

Soon  after  came  another  man,  walking  with 
uncovered  head,  but  his  face  could  not  be  discerned 
because  of  the  shadow.  And  the  watcher  said, 

78 


THE  RIPENING  OF  THE  FRUIT 

"Now  we  shall  see  what  the  gods  intend."  The 
man  went  freely  and  easily,  without  a  care,  and 
when  he  came  to  the  fruit  he  put  out  his  hand  and 
took  it,  saying  to  himself,  "The  benevolent  Pura- 
mitra  will  be  glad  that  I  should  have  this,  for  he  is 
good  to  all  his  friends."  So  he  ate  of  the  fruit, 
and  fell  at  the  foot  of  the  tree. 

Then  Puramitra  came  running,  and  lifted  up 
the  dead  man,  and  looked  upon  his  face.  And  it 
was  the  face  of  his  friend,  the  well-beloved  Indranu. 

So  Puramitra  wept  aloud,  and  tore  his  hair,  and 
his  heart  went  black  within  him.  And  Vishna- 
morsu,  returning  through  the  garden  by  another 
path,  heard  the  lamentable  noise,  and  came  near, 
and  laughed.  But  the  Brahman,  passing  homeward, 
looked  upon  the  three,  and  said,  "The  ways  of  the 
gods  are  secret;  but  the  happiest  of  these  is 
Indranu." 


79 


THE  KINGSJEWEL 


IHERE  was  an  outcry  at  the  door  of  the  king's 
great  hall,  and  suddenly  a  confusion  arose.  The 
guards  ran  thither  swiftly,  and  the  people  were 
crowded  together,  pushing  and  thrusting  as  if  to 
withhold  some  intruder.  Out  of  the  tumult  came 
a  strong  voice  shouting,  "I  will  come  in!  I  must 
see  the  false  king!"  But  other  voices  cried,  "Not 
so — you  are  mad — you  shall  not  come  in  thus!" 
Then  the  king  said,  "Let  him  come  in  as  he  will!" 
So  the  confusion  fell  apart,  and  the  hall  was  very 
still,  and  a  man  in  battered  armour  stumbled  through 
the  silence  and  stood  in  front  of  the  throne.  He 
was  breathing  hard,  for  he  was  weary  and  angry 
and  afraid,  and  the  sobbing  of  his  breath  shook  him 
from  head  to  foot.  But  his  anger  was  stronger 

80 


THE   KING'S  JEWEL 

than  his  weariness  and  his  fear,  so  he  lifted  his  eyes 
hardily  and  looked  the  king  in  the  face. 

It  was  like  the  face  of  a  mountain,  very  calm 
and  very  high,  but  not  unkind.  When  the  man 
saw  it  clearly  he  knew  that  he  was  looking  at  the 
true  king;  but  his  anger  was  not  quenched,  and  he 
stood  stiff,  with  drawn  brows,  until  the  king  said, 
"Speak!" 

For  answer  the  man  drew  from  his  breast  a  golden 
chain,  at  the  end  of  which  was  a  jewel  set  with  a 
great  blue  stone.  He  looked  at  it  for  a  moment 
with  scorn,  as  one  who  had  a  grievance.  Then  he 
threw  it  down  on  the  steps  of  the  throne,  and  turned 
on  his  heel  to  go. 

"Stay,"  said  the  king.     "Whose  is  this  jewel?" 

"I  thought  it  to  be  yours,"  said  the  man. 

"Where  did  you  get  it?"  asked  the  king. 

"From  an  old  servant  of  yours,"  answered  the 
man.  "He  gave  it  to  me  when  I  was  but  a  lad, 
and  told  me  it  came  from  the  king — it  was  the  blue 
stone  of  the  Truth,  perfect  and  priceless.  There 
fore  I  must  keep  it  as  the  apple  of  mine  eye,  and 
bring  it  back  to  the  king  perfect  and  unbroken." 

81 


THE  KING'S  JEWEL 

"And  you  have  done  this?"  said  the  king. 

"Yes  and  no,"  answered  the  man. 

"Divide  your  answer,"  said  the  king.  "First, 
the  yes." 

The  man  delayed  a  moment  before  he  spoke. 
Then  his  words  came  slow  and  firm  as  if  they  were 
measured  and  weighed  in  his  mind. 

"All  that  man  could  do,  O  king,  have  I  done  to 
keep  this  jewel  of  the  Truth.  Against  open  foes 
and  secret  robbers  I  have  defended  it,  with  faith 
ful  watching  and  hard  fighting.  Through  storm 
and  peril,  through  darkness  and  sorrow,  through 
the  temptation  of  pleasure  and  the  bewilderment 
of  riches,  I  have  never  parted  from  it.  Gold  could 
not  buy  it;  passion  could  not  force  it;  nor  man  nor 
woman  could  wile  or  win  it  away.  Glad  or  sorry, 
well  or  wounded,  at  home  or  in  exile,  I  have  given 
my  life  to  keep  the  jewel.  This  is  the  meaning  of 
the  yes" 

"It  is  right,"  said  the  king.     "And  now  the  no" 

The  man  answered  quickly  and  with  heat. 

"The  no  also  is  right,  O  king!  But  not  by  my 
fault.  The  jewel  is  not  untarnished,  not  perfect. 

82 


The  KiDg's  Jewel. 


THE  KING'S  JEWEL 

It  never  was.  There  is  a  flaw  in  the  stone.  I  saw 
it  first  when  I  entered  the  light  of  your  palace-gate. 
Look,  it  is  marred  and  imperfect,  a  thing  of  little 
value.  It  is  not  the  crystal  of  Truth.  I  have  been 
deceived.  You  have  claimed  my  life  for  a  fool's 
errand,  a  thing  of  naught;  no  jewel,  but  a  bauble. 
Take  it.  It  is  yours." 

The  king  looked  not  at  the  gold  chain  and  the 
blue  stone,  but  at  the  face  of  the  man.  He  looked 
quietly  and  kindly  and  steadily  into  the  eyes  full 
of  pain  and  wounded  loyalty,  until  they  fell  before 
his  look.  Then  he  spoke  gently. 

"Will  you  give  me  my  jewel?" 

The  man  lifted  his  eyes  in  wonder. 

"It  is  there,"  he  cried,  "at  your  feet!" 

"I  spoke  not  of  that,"  said  the  king,  "but  of 
your  life,  yourself." 

"My  life,"  said  the  man  faltering,  "what  is  that? 
Is  it  not  ended?" 

"It  is  begun,"  said  the  king.  "Your  life — your 
self,  what  of  that?" 

"I  had  not  thought  of  that,"  said  the  man,  "only 
of  the  jewel,  not  of  myself,  my  life." 

83 


THE  KING'S  JEWEL 

"Think  of  it  now,"  said  the  king,  "and  think 
clearly.  Have  you  not  learned  courage  and  hardi 
ness?  Have  not  your  labours  brought  you  strength; 
your  perils,  wisdom;  your  wounds,  patience?  Has 
not  your  task  broken  chains  for  you,  and  lifted  you 
out  of  sloth  and  above  fear?  Do  you  say  that  the 
stone  that  has  done  this  for  you  is  false,  a  thing 
of  naught?" 

"Is  this  true?"  said  the  man,  trembling  and  sink 
ing  on  his  knee. 

"It  is  true,"  answered  the  king,  "as  God  lives, 
it  is  true.  Come,  stand  at  my  right  hand.  My 
jewels  that  I  seek  are  not  dead,  but  alive.  But 
the  stone  which  led  you  here — look!  has  it  a  flaw?" 

He  stooped  and  lifted  the  jewel.  The  light  of 
his  face  fell  upon  it.  And  in  the  blue  depths  of  the 
sapphire  the  man  saw  a  star. 


84 


THE   MUSIC-LOVER 


THE  MUSIC-LOVER 

IHE  Music-Lover  had  come  to  his  favourite  seat. 
It  was  in  the  front  row  of  the  balcony,  just  where 
the  curve  reaches  its  outermost  point,  and,  like  a 
rounded  headland,  meets  the  unbroken  flow  of  the 
long-rolling,  invisible  waves  of  rhythmical  sound. 

The  value  of  that  chosen  place  did  not  seem  to 
be  known  to  the  world,  else  there  would  have  been 
a  higher  price  demanded  for  the  privilege  of  occu 
pying  it.  People  were  willing  to  pay  far  more  to 
get  into  the  boxes,  or  even  to  have  a  chair  reserved 
on  the  crowded  level  of  the  parquet. 

But  the  Music-Lover  cared  little  for  fashion, 
and  had  long  ago  ceased  to  reckon  the  worth  of 
things  by  the  prices  asked  for  them  in  the  market. 

He  knew  that  his  coign  of  vantage,  by  some  se 
cret  confluence  of  architectural  lines,  gave  him  the 
very  best  of  the  delight  of  hearing  that  the  vast 
concert-hall  contained.  It  was  for  that  delight 

Copyright,  1907,  by  Moffat,  Yard  &  Co. 

87 


THE  MUSIC-LOVER 

that  he  was  thirsting,  and  he  surrendered  himself 
to  it  confidently  and  entirely. 

He  had  arrived  at  an  oasis  in  the  day.  Since 
morning  he  had  been  toiling  through  the  Sahara 
of  the  city's  noise:  arid,  senseless,  inhospitable 
noise:  roaring  of  wheels,  clanging  of  bells,  shriek 
ing  of  whistles,  clatter  of  machinery,  squawking 
of  horns,  raucous  and  strident  voices:  confused, 
bewildering,  exhausting  noise,  a  desolate  and  un 
friendly  desert  of  heard  ugliness. 

Now  all  that  waste,  howling  wilderness  was  shut 
out  by  the  massive  walls  of  the  concert-hall,  and 
he  found  himself  in  a  haven  of  refuge. 

But  silence  alone  would  not  have  healed  and 
restored  his  spirit.  It  needed  something  more 
than  the  absence  of  harsh  and  brutal  and  mean 
ingless  noise  to  satisfy  him.  It  needed  the  pres 
ence  of  music:  tones  measured,  ordered,  and  re 
strained;  varied  and  blended  not  by  chance,  but 
by  feeling  and  reason;  sound  expressive  of  the  secret 
life  and  the  rhythmical  emotion  of  the  human 
heart.  And  this  he  found  flowing  all  around  him, 
entering  deeply  into  him,  filling  all  the  parched 

88 


THE  MUSIC-LOVER 

and  empty  channels  of  his  being,  as  he  listened  to 
Beethoven's  great  Symphony  in  C  Minor. 


THERE  was  nothing  between  him  and  the  or 
chestra.  He  looked  over  the  railing  of  the  gallery, 
which  shaded  his  eyes  from  the  lights  of  the  boxes 
below,  straight  across  the  gulf  in  which  the  mass 
of  the  audience,  diminutive  and  indistinguishable, 
seemed  to  be  submerged,  to  the  brilliant  island  of 
the  stage. 

The  conductor  stood  in  the  foreground.  There 
was  no  touch  of  carefully  considered  eccentricity 
in  hair  or  costume,  no  pose  of  self-conscious  Bo- 
hemianism  about  him.  His  face,  with  its  clear 
brow,  firmly  moulded  chin,  and  brown  moustache, 
was  that  of  a  man  who  understood  himself  as  well 
as  music.  His  figure,  in  its  faultless  evening  dress, 
had  the  tranquil  poise  and  force  of  one  who  obeys 
the  customs  of  society  in  order  to  be  free  to  give 
his  mind  to  other  things.  With  slight  motions,  easy 
and  graceful  as  if  they  came  without  thought  and 

89 


THE  MUSIC-LOVER 

required  no  effort,  his  right  hand,  with  the  little 
baton,  gave  the  time  and  rhythm,  commanding 
swift  obedience;  while  his  left  hand  lightly  beck 
oned  here  and  there  with  magical  persuasion,  draw 
ing  forth  louder  or  softer  notes,  stirring  the  groups 
of  instruments  to  passionate  expression,  or  hushing 
them  to  delicate  and  ethereal  strains. 

There  was  no  labour,  no  dramatic  display  in  that 
leadership;  nothing  to  distract  the  attention,  or  to 
break  the  spell  of  the  music.  All  the  toil  of  art, 
the  consideration  of  effects,  the  sharp  and  vehe 
ment  assertion  of  authority,  lay  behind  him  in  the 
rehearsals. 

Now  the  finished  work,  the  noble  interpretation 
of  the  composer's  musical  idea,  flowed  forth  at  the 
leader's  touch,  as  if  each  motive  and  phrase,  each 
period  and  melody,  were  waiting  somewhere  in  the 
air  to  reveal  itself  at  his  slight  signal.  And  through 
all  the  movement  of  the  Allegro  con  brio,  with  its 
momentous  struggle  between  Fate  and  the  Human 
Soul,  the  orchestra  answered  to  the  leader's  will 
as  if  it  were  a  single  instrument  upon  which  he 
played. 

90 


, 


The  Music-Lover. 


THE  MUSIC-LOVER 

And  so,  for  a  time,  it  seemed  to  the  Music-Lover 
as  he  looked  down  upon  it  from  his  lofty  place. 
With  what  precision  the  bows  of  the  violins  moved 
up  and  down  together;  how  accurately  the  wood 
winds  came  in  with  their  gentler  notes;  how  regu 
larly  the  brazen  keys  of  the  trumpets  rose  and  fell, 
and  the  long,  shining  tubes  of  the  trombone  slid 
out  and  in.  Such  varied  motions,  yet  all  so  limited, 
so  orderly,  so  certain  and  obedient,  looked  like 
the  sure  interplay  of  the  parts  of  a  wonderful 
machine. 

He  watched  them  as  if  in  a  dream,  fascinated 
by  their  regularity,  their  simplicity  in  detail,  their 
complexity  in  the  mass — watched  them  with  his 
eyes,  while  his  heart  was  carried  along  with  the 
flood  of  music.  More  and  more  the  impression 
of  a  marvellous  unity,  a  mechanical  certainty  of 
action,  grew  upon  that  half  of  his  mind  which  was 
occupied  with  sight,  and  gave  him  a  singular  satis 
faction  and  comfort. 

It  was  good  to  be  free,  for  a  little  while  at  least, 
from  the  everlasting  personal  equation,  the  per 
plexing  interest  in  human  individuals,  the  mys- 

91 


THE  MUSIC-LOVER 

terious  and  disturbing  sympathies  awakened  by 
contact  with  other  lives,  and  to  give  one's  self  to 
the  pure  enjoyment  of  an  impersonal  work  of  art, 
rendered  by  the  greatest  of  all  instruments — a  full 
orchestra  under  control  of  a  master. 


II 

BUT  presently  the  Allegro  came  to  an  end,  and 
with  the  pause  there  came  that  brief  stir  in  the 
orchestra,  that  momentary  relaxation  of  nerves  and 
muscles,  that  moving  and  turning  of  many  heads 
in  different  directions,  that  swift  interchange  of 
looks  and  smiles  and  whispered  words  between 
the  players,  which  seemed  like  the  temporary  dis 
solving  of  the  spell  that  made  them  one.  And 
with  this  general  but  separated  and  uncertain  move 
ment  a  vague  thought,  an  unformulated  question, 
passed  into  the  mind  of  the  Music-Lover. 

How  would  the  leader  reassemble  the  parts  of 
his  instrument  in  a  few  seconds,  and  make  them 
one  again,  and  resume  his  control  over  it?  How 
would  he  make  the  pipes  and  strings  and  tubes  and 

92 


THE  MUSIC-LOVER 

drums  answer  to  his  touch,  though  he  laid  no  hand 
upon  them?  There  must  be  some  strange,  invis 
ible  key-board,  some  secret  system  of  communica 
tion  between  him  and  those  various  contrivances 
of  wood  and  wire  and  sheep-skin  and  horse-hair 
and  metal  (so  curiously  and  grotesquely  fashioned, 
when  one  came  to  consider  them)  out  of  which  he 
was  to  bring  melody  and  harmony.  How  should 
one  conceive  of  this  mysterious  key-board  and  its 
hidden  connections? 

How  should  one  comprehend  and  imagine  it? 
Was  it  not,  after  all,  the  most  wonderful  thing 
about  the  great  instrument  on  which  the  symphony 
was  played? 

While  the  Music-Lover,  leaning  back  in  his  seat, 
was  idly  turning  over  this  thought,  the  Andante 
began,  and  all  definite  questioning  and  reasoning 
were  absorbed  in  the  calm,  satisfying  melody  which 
flowed  from  the  violas  and  'cellos. 

But  now  a  singular  change  came  over  the  half- 
conscious  impression  which  his  eyes  received  as 
they  rested  on  the  orchestra.  It  was  no  longer  a 
huge  and  strangely  fashioned  instrument,  intricate 

93 


THE  MUSIC-LOVER 

in  construction,  perfect  in  adjustment,  that  he  was 
watching. 

It  was  a  company  of  human  beings,  trained  and 
disciplined  to  common  action,  understanding  one 
another  through  the  sharing  of  a  certain  technical 
knowledge,  and  bound  together  by  a  unity  of  will 
which  was  expressed  in  their  central  obedience  to 
the  leader.  The  arms,  the  hands,  the  lips  of  these 
hundred  persons  were  weaving  together  the  many- 
coloured  garment  of  music,  because  their  minds 
knew  the  pattern,  and  their  wills  worked  together 
in  the  design. 

Here  was  the  wonderful  hidden  system  of  com 
munication,  more  magical  than  any  mechanism, 
just  because  it  was  less  perfect,  just  because  it  left 
room,  along  each  separate  channel,  for  the  coming 
in  of  those  slight,  incalculable  elements  of  personal 
emotion  which  lend  the  touch  of  life  to  rhythm  and 
tone. 

The  instruments  were  but  the  tools.  The  com 
poser  was  the  master-designer.  The  leader  and 
his  orchestra  were  the  weavers  of  the  rich  robe  of 
sound,  in  which  alone  the  hidden  spirit  of  Music, 

94 


THE  MUSIC-LOVER 

daughter   of   Psyche   and  Amor,   becomes   percep 
tible  to  mortal  sense. 

The  smooth  and  harmonious  action  of  the  players 
seemed  to  lend  a  new  charm,  delicate  and  inde 
finable,  to  the  development  of  the  clear  and  heart- 
strengthening  theme  with  its  subtle  variations  and 
its  powerful,  emphatic  close,  like  the  fulness  of 
meaning  in  the  last  line  of  a  noble  sonnet. 

Ill 

IN  the  pause  that  followed,  the  Music-Lover  let 
himself  drift  quietly  with  the  thoughts  of  peace 
and  concord  awakened  by  this  loveliest  of  andantes. 

The  beginning  of  the  Scherzo  found  him,  some 
how  or  other,  in  a  new  relation  to  the  visible  image 
of  the  orchestra.  The  weird,  almost  supernatural 
music,  murmured  at  first  by  the  'cellos  and  double- 
basses,  then  proclaimed  by  the  horns  as  if  by  the 
trumpet  of  Fate  itself;  the  repetition  of  the  same 
struggle  of  emotions  which  had  marked  the  first 
movement,  but  now  more  tense,  more  passionate, 
more  human,  the  strange,  fantastic  mingling  of 

95 


THE  MUSIC-LOVER 

comedy  and  tragedy  in  the  Trio  and  the  Fugue 
with  its  abrupt  questions  and  answers;  all  this 
seemed  to  him  like  a  moving  picture  of  the  inner 
life  of  man. 

And  while  he  followed  it,  the  other  half  of  his 
mind  was  watching  the  players,  no  longer  as  a 
group,  a  unit  of  disciplined  action,  but  as  individ 
uals,  persons  for  each  of  whom  life  had  a  distinct 
colour,  and  tone,  and  meaning. 

His  eyes  rested  unconsciously  on  the  pale,  dreamy 
face  of  the  second  violinist;  the  black,  rugged  brows 
of  the  trumpeter:  the  long,  gentle  countenance  of 
the  flute-player  with  its  flexible  lips  and  blond 
beard. 

The  grizzled  head  of  the  'cellist  bent  over  his 
instrument  with  an  air  of  quiet  devotion.  The 
burly  form  of  the  player  of  the  double-bassoon, 
behind  his  rare  and  awkward  instrument,  waiting 
for  his  time  to  come  in,  had  the  look  of  a  man  who 
could  not  be  surprised  or  troubled  by  anything. 
One  of  the  bass- violinists  had  the  rough-hewn  figure 
and  the  divinely  chiseled,  sorrow-lighted  face  of 
Lincoln,  the  others  were  children  of  the  everyday. 

96 


THE  MUSIC-LOVER 

The  clarionettist,  with  his  dark  beard  and  high 
temples,  might  have  sat  for  Rembrandt's  picture 
of  "The  Philosopher."  The  rotund  kettle-drum 
mer,  with  his  smooth  head  and  sparkling  eyes,  rest 
lessly  turning  his  little  keys  and  bending  down  to 
listen  to  the  tuning  of  his  grotesque  music-pots, 
seemed  impatient  for  the  part  in  the  score  when  he 
was  to  build  the  magical  bridge,  on  which  the  sym 
phony  passes,  without  a  break,  from  the  third  to 
the  last  movement. 

"All  these  persons,"  said  the  inner  voice  of  the 
Music-Lover  (he  listening  all  the  while  to  the  en 
tangling  and  unfolding,  dismissing  and  recalling 
of  the  various  motives) — "all  these  persons  have 
their  own  lives  and  characters.  They  have  known 
joys  and  sorrows,  failures  and  successes.  They 
have  hoped  and  feared.  All  that  Beethoven  poured 
into  this  music  from  his  experience  of  poverty,  of 
conflict  with  physical  weakness  and  the  cruel  limi 
tations  of  Fate,  of  baffled  desire,  of  loneliness,  of 
strong  resolution,  of  immortal  courage  and  faith, 
these  players  in  their  measure  and  degree  have 
known. 

97 


THE  MUSIC-LOVER 

"Even  now  they  may  be  in  love,  in  hatred,  in 
friendship,  in  jealousy,  in  gloom,  in  resignation, 
in  courage,  or  in  happiness.  What  strange  paths 
lie  behind  them;  what  laughter  and  what  tears 
have  they  shared;  what  secret  ties  unite  them,  one 
with  another,  and  what  hidden  barriers  rise  be 
tween  those  who  do  not  understand  and  those  who 
do  not  care!  There  are  many  stories  running  along 
underneath  this  music,  some  of  them  just  begun, 
some  long  since  ended,  some  never  to  find  a  true 
completion :  little  stories  of  many  lands,  humourous 
and  pathetic,  droll  and  capricious  legends,  merry 
jests,  vivid  romances,  serious  tales  of  patience  and 
devotion. 

"And  out  of  these  stories,  because  they  are  hu 
man,  has  come  the  humanity  of  the  players:  the 
thing  which  makes  it  possible  for  them  to  feel  this 
music,  and  to  play  it,  not  as  a  machine  would  play, 
grinding  it  out  with  dead  monotony,  but  with  all 
the  colour  and  passion  of  life  itself. 

"Why  should  we  not  know  something  of  this 
hidden  background  of  the  orchestra?  Why  should 
not  somebody  tell  one  of  the  stories  that  is  waiting 

98 


THE  MUSIC-LOVER 

here?  Not  I,  but  some  one  familiar  with  this 
region,  who  has  trodden  its  paths  and  shared  in 
its  labours;  not  a  mere  lover  of  music,  but  a  mu 
sician." 

Here  the  inner  voice  which  had  been  running 
along  through  the  Scherzo  and  the  Trio  and  the 
Recapitulation,  died  away  quietly  with  the  pianis 
simo  passage  in  which  the  double-basses  and  the 
drum  carry  one  through  the  very  heart  of  mystery; 
and  the  Music-Lover  found  himself  intensely  wait 
ing  for  the  great  Finale. 

Now  it  comes,  long-expected,  surprising,  victori 
ous,  sweeping  all  the  instruments  into  its  mighty 
current,  pausing  for  a  moment  to  take  up  the  most 
delicate  and  mysterious  melody  of  the  Scherzo 
(changed  as  if  by  magic  into  something  new  and 
strange),  and  then  moving  on  again,  with  hurry 
ing,  swelling  tide,  until  it  breaks  in  the  swift-roll 
ing,  thunderous  billows  of  immeasurable  jubilation. 

The  Music-Lover  drew  a  long  breath.  He  sat 
motionless  in  his  seat.  The  storm  of  applause  did 
not  disturb  him.  He  did  not  notice  that  the  audi 
ence  had  risen.  He  was  looking  at  the  orchestra, 

99 


THE  MUSIC-LOVER 

already  beginning  to  melt  away;  but  he  did  not 
really  see  them. 

Presently  a  hand  was  stretched  out  from  the 
second  row  behind  him,  and  touched  him  on  the 
shoulder.  He  turned  around  and  saw  the  face  of 
his  friend  the  Dreamer,  the  Brushwood  Boy,  with 
his  bright  eyes  and  disheveled  hair.  And  beside 
him  was  the  radiant  presence  of  the  Girl  Who 
Understood. 

"Lieber  Meister,"  said  the  Boy,  "you  are  com 
ing  now  with  us.  There  is  a  bite  and  a  sup,  and  a 
pipe  and  an  open  fire,  waiting  for  you  in  our  room 
— and  I  have  a  story  to  read  you.  Bitte  komm!" 


100 


HUMORESKE 


HUMORESKE 
I 

1  HEY  parted  at  the  end  of  the  summer — the  boy 
and  the  girl — after  having  been  very  happy  together 
for  two  months  and  very  miserable  for  two  days. 
The  trouble  was  that  she  would  not  marry  him. 

This  was  not  altogether  strange,  for  Richard 
Shafer  was  only  twenty  and  had  just  finished  his 
second  year  in  college.  To  Carola  Brune,  who  was 
a  year  younger,  he  seemed  perfect  as  a  playmate, 
but  she  simply  could  not  imagine  him  as  a  husband. 
He  was  too  vague,  unformed,  boyish  in  his  moods 
and  caprices.  She  was  a  strong  girl,  with  quick 
and  powerful  impulses  in  her  nature,  and  she  felt 
that  she  would  need  a  strong  man  to  hold  her. 
What  Richard  was,  what  he  would  be,  she"  could 
not  clearly  see.  She  loved  to  make  music  with 
him — she  at  the  piano,  he  with  his  violin.  She 
loved  to  roam  the  woods  with  him,  and  to  go  out 


HUMORESKE 

in  a  canoe  with  him  on  the  moonlit  river.  But  she 
could  not  and  she  would  not  say  that  she  loved  him 
— at  least,  not  enough  to  promise  to  marry  him 
now. 

He  took  her  "no"  very  hard.  He  argued  the 
case  persistently.  There  were  no  real  obstacles, 
that  he  could  see,  to  their  marriage.  She  was  the 
daughter  of  a  musician,  a  Bohemian,  who  would 
make  no  objections  to  an  unworldly  match.  He 
was  an  orphan  with  a  little  patrimony  of  four  or 
five  thousand  dollars,  enough  to  live  on  until  the 
world  recognised  his  genius  as  a  poet  and  his  mas 
tery  as  a  violinist. 

At  this,  unfortunately,  being  a  little  nervous  and 
overstrained  by  the  long  pleading,  she  laughed. 
"Oh,  Dick!"  she  cried.  "Swinburne  and  Sarasate 
— two  single  gentlemen  rolled  into  one!" 

Now  there  is  nothing  that  a  boy — or  for  that 
matter,  a  man — dislikes  so  much  as  laughter  when 
he  is  making  a  declaration  of  love.  His  sense  of 
humour  at  that  time  is  in  eclipse,  and  even  the 
gentlest  turn  of  wit  shocks  him  deeply. 

"Very  well,"  he  answered,  rising  from  their  fa- 
104 


HUMORESKE 

vourite  seat  among  the  roots  of  an  old  hemlock  tree 
overhanging  the  stream,  "let  us  go  back  to  the 
hotel.  I  have  been  a  silly  ass,  I  suppose,  and  now 
it's  all  over." 

"But  why?" — she  was  tempted  to  ask  him  as 
they  walked  through  the  woods.  Why  was  it  all 
over?  Why  shouldn't  they  go  on  being  good  friends 
and  comrades?  Couldn't  he  see  that  she  had  only 
tried  to  make  a  little  joke  to  ease  the  strain?  Didn't 
he  know  that  she  really  had  a  wonderful  admira 
tion  for  his  talents  and  a  large  hope  for  his  future? 

But  something  held  her  back  from  speaking.  She 
was  embarrassed  and  slightly  ashamed.  He  was  in 
a  strange  mood,  evidently  offended,  absurdly  polite 
and  distant,  making  talk  about  the  concert  that 
was  to  come  off  that  evening.  She  could  not  bring 
herself  to  explain  to  him  now.  She  would  do  it  in 
the  morning  when  the  air  was  clearer  and  cooler. 

As  they  entered  the  hotel,  she  turned  into  the 
music  room,  saying  that  she  had  to  practise  for  her 
part  in  the  concert.  He  held  out  his  hand  with  a 
little  formal  gesture.  "I  wish  you  a  big  success," 
said  he;  "my  part  doesn't  need  any  practice." 
105 


HUMORESKE 

Then  he  went  upstairs  to  pack  his  trunk  for  the 
six  o'clock  train. 

An  hour  later,  as  he  passed  out  of  the  door,  he 
heard  her  still  at  the  piano.  She  was  playing  for 
her  own  pleasure  now — just  to  relieve  the  tension 
of  her  feelings  by  letting  them  flow  out  on  the 
rhythmic  current  of  music.  It  was  her  favourite 
piece,  that  magical  humoreske  by  Dvorak,  which  is 
like  an  April  day,  full  of  smiles  and  tears,  pleading 
and  laughter.  The  clear  notes  came  out  under  her 
exquisite  touch  with  a  penetrating  charm  of  airy, 
graceful  fantasy.  To  the  angry  boy  at  the  door  it 
seemed  as  if  they  were  full  of  delicate  indifference 
and  mockery.  They  expressed  to  him  the  spirit  of 
a  girl — light,  capricious,  elusive,  yet  with  a  will  that 
can  resist  all  appeal  and  evade  all  attack — an  in 
vincible  butterfly,  a  thistle-down  of  steel — the  thing 
that  a  man  wants  most  in  all  the  world  and  yet 
can  not  have  unless  she  chooses.  She  stood  for  his 
first  defeat,  his  great  disappointment,  his  discovery 
that  life  can  refuse;  and  now  she  was  playing  this 
quaint,  careless,  mocking  music! 

"She  does  not  care,"  he  said  to  himself,  as  he 
106 


HUMORESKE 

climbed  into  the  stage,  "and  I  will  not  care.  She  is 
only  a  flirt.  All  girls  are  like  that."  With  this 
profound  generalisation  in  what  he  called  his  mind, 
but  what  was  really  his  temper,  he  rode  sullenly 
away. 

He  did  not  hear  how  she  lingered  caressingly  over 
the  last  phrases  of  the  humoreske,  playing  them  very 
softly,  with  her  blond  head  bent  over  the  piano, 
as  if  she  were  trying  to  recall  something.  He  did 
not  know  that  she  put  on  the  frock  that  he  liked 
best,  with  the  mauve  ribbons,  for  the  concert  that 
night.  He  did  not  see  her  lips  quiver  and  the  look 
of  pained  surprise  flash  into  her  brown  eyes  when 
she  heard  that  he  had  gone  without  even  saying 
good-bye. 

Naturally  she,  thinking  him  a  proud  and  foolish 
boy,  waited  for  him  to  come  back  or  to  write. 
Naturally  he,  having  classified  her  as  a  cold  and 
heartless  flirt,  expected  her  to  send  him  a  letter 
asking  him  to  return.  Naturally  neither  of  these 
things  happened.  The  little  bank-dividing  stream 
of  circumstance  flowed  between  them,  ever  broad 
ening,  until  it  seemed  like  an  impassable  river. 
107 


HUMORESKE 

Each  of  them  said,  "It  was  only  an  episode." 
Each  of  them  was  sure  that  there  was  nothing  in 
it  which  could  mean  a  lasting  pain,  nothing  which 
time  would  not  obliterate.  Each  of  them  repeated 
a  wise  phrase  or  two  about  "passing  fancies"  and 
"puppy  love,"  and  so  they  went  their  ways  lightly 
enough,  reasonably  resolving  not  to  think  of  each 
other  any  more. 

But  it  was  strange  how  clearly  and  brightly  the 
scenes  of  the  summer  itself  lived  in  their  memories. 
To  both  of  them  there  was  a  peculiar  and  deepen 
ing  vividness  in  those  pictures  of  certain  places. 

The  hardwood  ridges  in  the  forest,  where  there 
was  no  undergrowth  and  they  could  walk  straight 
ahead,  side  by  side,  through  the  interminable  col 
onnade  of  beeches  and  birches  which  upheld  the 
green,  gold-flecked  roof, — the  dark  tangled  spruce 
thicket,  where  one  must  stoop  under  the  interlacing 
lower  branches,  dead  and  brittle,  and  creep  over 
the  soft  brown  carpet  of  fallen  needles,  dry  and 
slippery,  in  order  to  reach  a  little  open  glade,  moist 
with  springs,  where  t&e  red  wood-lily  and  the 
purple-fringed  orchid  grew, — the  high  steep  rock 
108 


HUMORESKE 

that  jutted  out  from  the  woods  about  half-way  up 
the  slope  of  the  Dome,  as  if  to  make  a  narrow  view 
point  of  surprise  where  two  people  could  stand  close 
together  and  look  down  upon  the  broad  valley  and 
the  blue  hills  beyond, — the  old  hemlock,  with  its 
big,  bent  knees  covered  with  moss,  ready  to  hold 
them  comfortably  in  its  lap,  while  they  read  poetry 
or  stories  of  adventure,  and  the  little  river  sung  its 
sleepy  song  at  their  feet, — the  long  stillwater  where 
the  canoe  floated  quietly  among  the  mirrored  stars, 
— the  merry  rapids  where  the  moon  path  spread 
before  them  broad  and  silvery,  luring  them  to  follow 
it  down  to  danger, — the  twilight  hour  in  the  music 
room,  where  the  piano  answered  to  the  violin,  and 
through  the  open  door  and  windows  the  aromatic 
breath  of  the  pine-trees  and  the  spicy  smell  of  wild 
grapes  drifted  faintly  in, — a  certain  afternoon  when 
the  cool  rain-drops  beat  in  their  faces  as  they 
tramped  home,  after  a  long  walk  over  the  hills, 
wet  and  joyous,  swinging  their  clasped  hands  and 
chanting  some  foolish,  endless  song  of  the  road, — 
a  certain  evening  when  the  murmuring  hemlock 
above  them  grew  silent,  and  the  whispering  water 
109 


HUMORESKE 

below  them  seemed  to  hush,  and  a  single  big  star 
across  the  river  was  softly  throbbing  in  the  mauve 
dusk,  and  their  lips  met  for  a  moment  as  purely 
and  silently  as  the  twilight  meets  the  night; — these 
were  pictures  that  would  not  fade  and  dissolve. 
There  was  something  unforgettable  about  them. 

Was  it  the  spirit  of  place  that  possessed  them 
with  a  unique  loveliness;  or  was  it  that  they  were 
illuminated  by  the  charm  of  a  companionship  in 
which  two  hearts  had  tasted  together  the  sweetest 
cup  in  the  world,  the  royal  chalice  of  the  pure, 
uncalculating,  inexplicable  joy  of  living? 

Be  that  as  it  may,  the  fact  remains  that  while 
the  boy  and  the  girl  went  away  from  each  other, 
and  grew  separately  to  manhood  and  womanhood, 
and  had  other  experiences  and  joys  and  troubles, 
that  summer  stayed  with  them  both  as  something 
rare  and  unequalled,  set  apart  in  its  delectable  per 
fection,  a  standard  by  which,  unconsciously,  they 
measured  all  happiness  and  all  beauty. 

The  effect  of  such  an  inward  standard  is  peculiar. 
It  is  apt  to  give  a  certain  detachment,  a  touch  of 
isolation,  to  the  person  who  possesses  it.  And 
110 


HUMORESKE 

whether  that  is  a  good  thing  or  a  bad  thing  depends 
upon  the  tone  which  is  given  to  it  by  an  unknown 
quantity,  the  way  in  which  the  secret  will  of  the 
spirit  chooses  to  take  and  use  it. 

To  Carola  Brune  it  was  like  the  possession  of 
something  very  precious,  which  she  had  found  and 
which  she  felt  she  could  never  lose.  She  followed 
the  path  which  was  marked  out  for  her  as  a  student 
of  music  with  tranquil  enthusiasm  and  cheerful  in 
dustry;  she  made  friends  everywhere  by  her  serene 
and  wholesome  loveliness;  and  she  did  her  work  at 
the  piano  so  well  that  when  she  went  to  Paris,  at 
the  end  of  the  second  year,  to  continue  her  studies, 
she  found  no  difficulty  in  being  received  as  a  pupil 
by  the  great  Alberti. 

"You  have  a  very  happy  touch,  mademoiselle," 
said  the  little  gray  man  one  day  at  the  end  of  a 
lesson.  He  gave  his  moustache  that  fierce  upward 
turn  with  which  he  accompanied  his  rare  compli 
ments,  and  frowned  at  her  benignly  while  he  went 
on.  "I  suppose  you  know  that  you  really  play 
better  than  you  know  how  to  play.  What  right 

have  you  to  do  that?" 

Ill 


HUMORESKE 

She  smiled  as  she  turned  around  to  him,  for  she 
had  learned  to  understand  his  abrupt  ways.  "No 
right,  dear  master,"  she  said,  "only  perhaps  it  is 
because  I  happen  to  know  a  little  of  the  meaning 
of  happiness." 

"But  you  play  the  sad  music  too,"  he  continued, 
"and  you  let  it  all  come  out." 

"That  is  because  I  am  not  afraid  of  sadness," 
she  answered,  with  her  clear  brown  eyes  looking 
quietly  up  at  him. 

His  voice  grew  gentle  and  he  laid  his  hand  on 
her  shoulder.  "You  have  the  secret,  my  child — to 
know  the  meaning  of  happiness,  and  not  to  be 
afraid  of  sadness,  but  to  pour  it  all  into  the  music. 
That  is  the  secret,  and  it  will  make  you  a  musician, 
— it  will  carry  you  far,  I  think, — provided  you  don't 
neglect  your  practising,"  he  added  brusquely. 

She  shook  her  head  and  laughed.  "I  wouldn't 
dare  do  that  with  such  a  tyrant  as  you,  dear  master." 

"Next  week,"  he  went  on,  giving  a  new  upward 

twist  to  his  moustache,  "I  shall  expect  you  to  be 

letter-perfect     with     that     G     major    concerto    of 

Beethoven — no  more  drum-beats,  remember.      And 

112 


HUMORESKE 

mind,  you  are  not  to  think  of  playing  in  public,  at 
a  concert,  until  I  tell  you.  It  may  be  a  long  time, — 
a  year,  perhaps, — but  I  am  not  going  to  let  them 
spoil  my  sweetest  rose  by  forcing  her  into  bloom 
too  soon." 

"Despot,"  she  laughed  back  as  he  patted  her 
hand  at  the  door,  "if  you  only  had  a  kind  heart  I 
should  love  you — a  little!" 

On  the  way  home  to  her  tiny  apartment  in  the 
Rue  de  Grenelle,  where  she  lived  with  her  aunt  and 
her  younger  sister,  who  was  a  student  of  drawing, 
she  walked  through  the  Garden  of  the  Luxembourg, 
thinking  about  a  concert.  Not  one  of  those  which 
the  master  had  forbidden  to  her,  but  a  very  simple 
and  foolish  and  far-away  little  concert  in  the  old 
hotel  beside  the  Delaware.  And  the  deep  beauty 
of  the  forest  came  back  to  her,  and  the  long-shining 
reaches  of  the  river,  and  the  hours  of  good  comrade 
ship  with  a  boy  who  perfectly  shared  her  joy  of 
living,  and  the  breath  of  the  pine-trees  and  the 
sweetness  of  the  wild  grape!  Did  she  really  smell 
them  now?  No,  it  was  only  the  faint  fragrance  of 
the  formal  beds  of  hyacinths  and  tulips  and  jonquils 
113 


HUMORESKE 

on  the  terraces  behind  the  old  palace.  In  the  broad 
walks,  children  were  running  and  playing.  Old 
men  were  smoking  on  the  benches  in  a  drowsy 
peace.  In  the  shady  paths  under  the  tall  trees, 
evidently  amatory  couples  were  strolling  or  sitting 
close  together.  Carola  enjoyed  it  all — but  there 
was  a  look  in  her  face,  half  sad,  half  smiling,  as  if 
she  remembered  something  better. 

When  she  reached  home,  she  laid  aside  her  hat 
and  scarf,  and  went  into  the  little  salon.  She  sat 
down  at  the  piano  and  let  her  fingers  run  idly  over 
the  keys,  wandering  from  fragment  to  fragment  of 
soft  music.  Then  with  a  firmer  touch  she  began  to 
play  the  humoreske  of  Dvorak,  but  with  a  new 
phrasing,  a  new  expression.  It  was  full  of  an  in 
finite  tenderness,  a  great  longing,  a  sweetness  of 
distant  and  remembered  joy.  It  seemed  to  be 
singing  over  again  the  favourite  song  of  some  one 
who  had  died — singing  very  clearly  and  distinctly 
so  as  not  to  lose  a  single  note,  a  single  movement, 
of  the  unforgotten  melody  of  happiness. 

The  delicate  dusk  of  a  May  evening  gathered 
slowly  in  the  room.  The  windows  were  wide  open. 
114 


HUMORESKE 

In  the  narrow,  curving  street  below,  already  half- 
deserted,  a  young  man  who  was  passing  with  long 
aimless  steps,  as  if  he  felt  that  he  must  be  going 
somewhere  but  did  not  know  exactly  where,  stopped 
suddenly  when  he  heard  the  music  above  him,  and 
stood  listening  until  its  last  note  trembled  into 
silence.  Then  he  strode  away,  but  in  the  opposite 
direction,  as  if  he  had  changed  his  mind. 


II 

THE  path  that  had  led  Richard  Shafer  into  the 
Rue  de  Grenelle  and  under  the  windows  of  Carola 
Brune  without  knowing  it,  was  long  and  round 
about,  and  in  places  rather  rough.  It  was  one  of 
the  by-ways  of  the  unknown  quantity. 

To  him,  from  the  first,  the  thought  of  the  perfect 
summer  had  been  like  something  that  he  had  lost 
and  would  never  find  again.  It  made  him  dissatis 
fied,  fickle,  and  resentful.  He  went  back  to  his 
college  work  with  a  temper  which  handicapped  him 
in  everything.  His  lessons  seemed  like  the  dullest 
drudgery  to  one  who  felt  sure  that  he  had  in  him 

115 


the  making  of  a  poet  or  a  musician,  he  did  not  quite 
know  which — perhaps  it  was  both.  The  fellowship 
of  the  other  boys,  with  its  rude  and  hearty  democ 
racy,  streaked  with  funny  little  social  prejudices 
and  ambitions,  was  a  thing  of  which  he  could  not 
or  would  not  learn  the  secret. 

He  tried  running  with  the  literary  set.  But 
Shorty  Burke,  who  was  the  acknowledged  college 
genius,  said  of  him,  "  Shafer  seems  to  think  that  he's 
the  only  man  since  Keats,  and  all  the  rest  of  us  are 
duffers." 

He  tried  running  with  the  fast  set.  But  Duke 
Jones,  who  could  carry  more  strong  liquors  than  any 
man  in  the  crowd,  said  of  him,  "Dick  is  no  good; 
when  he  goes  to  town  with  us  he's  a  thousand  miles 
away,  and  every  glass  makes  him  more  stuck-up 
and  quarrelsome." 

He  tried  running  with  the  purely  social  set,  the 
arbiters  of  college  elegance.  But  it  bored  him  im 
mensely,  and  he  took  no  pains  to  conceal  it,  so  they 
silently  cast  him  out. 

The  consequence  of  all  this  was  that  he  failed  to 
get  into  any  of  the  upper-class  societies,  and  con- 
116 


HUMORESKE 

soled  himself  with  the  belief  that  he  was  terribly  in 
love  with  a  girl  three  years  older  than  himself. 

She  was  part  of  a  liberal  education,  and  she  was 
very  kind  to  him  because  she  liked  hrs  really  beau 
tiful  violin  playing.  When  she  told  him,  at  the 
beginning  of  his  senior  year,  that  she  was  going  to 
marry  one  of  the  assistant  professors,  he  added 
another  illustration  to  his  theory  that  "all  girls  are 
like  that,"  and  plunged  into  a  violent  course  of 
study  for  honours  and  a  fellowship.  But  it  was 
too  late.  He  graduated  with  a  fourth  group  and 
a  firm  conviction  that  college  is  a  failure. 

Then  he  went  to  New  York,  with  his  violin  and 
with  a  dozen  poems  and  half-a-dozen  short  stories  in 
his  trunk,  resolved  to  storm  the  magazines  or  to 
get  a  place  in  one  of  the  great  orchestras — he  was 
not  quite  sure  wrhich  of  the  two  short  paths  to  fame 
it  wTould  be. 

It  was  neither.  He  sold  two  sonnets  and  a  story 
which  brought  him  in  $47.50.  For  a  few  months 
he  saw  life  in  the  Great  White  Way  and  other  paths, 
and  found  them  very  dusty.  It  would  not  be  true 
to  say  that  there  was  no  amusement  in  it.  'There 
117 


HUMORESKE 

were  times  when  it  was  excessively  merry.  And 
for  the  little  Gaffe  Fiammella,  where  the  fat,  bald- 
headed  proprietor  used  to  introduce  him  as  "Villus- 
trissimo  violinista  Signore  Ricardo  Sciafero,"  and 
where  the  mixed  audience  welcomed  his  music  with 
delight,  he  had  a  sincere  affection,  in  spite  of  the 
ineradicable  smell  of  garlic.  There  was  a  girl  there 
who  was  the  living  image  of  Raphael's  Fornarina, 
until  she  began  to  talk. 

But  in  all  the  life  that  he  thus  confusedly  saw, 
there  was  not  a  single  hour  to  which  he  could  have 
said  with  Faust,  "Oh,  stay,  thou  art  so  fair!"  For 
behind  it  all,  there  was  that  inward,  unconscious 
standard  of  beauty  and  happiness — the  summer 
which  he  could  not  have  forgotten  if  he  would,  and 
would  not  have  forgotten  if  he  could.  It  did  not 
console  or  comfort  him  at  all.  It  only  kept  him 
from  being  contented — which,  after  all,  would  have 
been  the  worst  thing  in  the  world  for  him  at  the 
present  stage  of  his  education. 

So  when  the  remnant  of  his  patrimony  had  shrunk 
to  a  couple  of  hundred  dollars,  he  burned  his  poems 
and  stories,  for  which  he  had  conceived  a  strong 
118 


HUMORESKE 

disgust,  and  took  passage  on  a  small  French  steam 
ship  for  Bordeaux,  to  make  the  "grand  tour"  of 
Europe.  His  violin  made  him  the  most  popular 
person  on  the  ship.  He  had  a  facile  talent  and  a 
good  memory,  which  enabled  him  to  play  almost 
any  kind  of  music;  and  when  he  could  not  remember 
he  could  improvise.  The  second  officer,  a  short, 
stout  man,  with  a  pointed  black  beard,  and  a  secret 
passion  for  the  fine  arts,  conceived  a  great  fancy 
for  the  young  American.  When  they  reached  Bor 
deaux  he  took  Richard  to  his  favourite  theatre 
and  introduced  him  to  the  leader  of  the  orchestra, 
a  person  with  a  crinkly  yellow  face  and  a  soft 
heart,  whose  name  was  Camembert,  for  which 
reason  his  intimates  called  him  "the  Cheese." 

The  theatre  was  about  to  close  for  the  summer, 
but  four  of  the  musicians  had  made  a  plan  for  a 
concert  tour  in  various  small  cities  and  watering- 
places.  When  M.  Camembert  had  heard  Richard 
play  after  a  joyous  supper  in  the  famous  restaurant 
of  the  Chapon  Fin,  he  embraced  him  with  effusion 
and  invited  him  to  join  the  company. 

Nothing  could  have  suited  the  young  man's 
119 


HUMORESKE 

humour  better.  They  wandered  from  one  city-in- 
etching  to  another, — Angouleme,  Poitiers,  Tours, 
Rennes,  Caen, — grey  and  crumbly  towns,  white  and 
trim  towns.  They  visited  the  rocky  resorts  of 
Brittany  and  the  sandy  resorts  of  Normandy.  They 
played  in  a  little  theatre,  or  in  a  casino,  or  in  the 
ballroom  of  a  hotel.  Their  fortunes  varied,  but 
in  the  main  they  were  prosperous.  The  announce 
ments  of  "The  Renowned  Camembert  Quintette, 
with  a  celebrated  American  Soloist"  attracted  an 
amused  curiosity.  And  the  music  was  good,  for 
the  old  man  wras  a  real  master,  and  the  practice 
was  strenuous  and  persistent.  It  was  hard  work, 
but  it  was  also  good  fun,  and  the  great  thing  for 
Richard  was  that  he  learned  more  of  the  human 
side  of  music  and  of  the  philosophy  of  life  than  he 
could  have  done  in  ten  years  of  insulated  study. 

A  vein  of  luck  which  they  struck  in  Rouen  and 
Dieppe  emboldened  them  to  turn  eastward,  with 
comfortably  full  pockets,  and  try  the  Dauphine 
and  High  Savoy.  At  Grenoble  they  had  a  frost 
and  a  heavy  loss,  but  at  the  sleepy  Baths  of  Uriage 
they  made  a  week  of  good  harvest  with  afternoon 
120 


H  U  M  O  R  E  S  K  E 

recitals.  Chambrey  did  well  for  them,  and  Annecy 
even  better,  so  that,  in  spite  of  the  indifference  of 
Aix,  they  reached  Geneva  in  funds.  Then  they 
played  their  way  around  the  Lake  of  Geneva,  and 
up  into  the  Rhone  Valley,  and  so  over  to  the  Italian 
lakes  with  the  autumn. 

Here,  at  Pallanza,  in  a  garden  overhanging  the 
Lago  Maggiore  where  the  Borromean  Isles  sleep  in 
their  swan-like  beauty  on  the  blue-green  waves, 
they  faced  the  question  of  turning  homeward  or 
going  on  to  the  south  for  a  winter  tour.  As  they 
sat  around  the  little  iron  table,  which  held  a  savoury 
Spanish  omelette  and  a  corpulent  straw-covered 
flask  of  Chianti,  their  spirit  was  cheerful  and  their 
courage  high. 

"Why  not?"  asked  the  valiant  Camembert. 
"Is  it  that  the  Italians  are  more  difficult  to  con 
quer  than  the  French?  Napoleon  did  it — my 
faith,  yes.  Forward  to  the  conquest  of  Italy!" 

Richard  was  immensely  amused.  He  did  not 
really  care  which  way  they  went,  as  long  as  they 
went  somewhere.  His  heart  was  full  of  a  vague 
hunger  for  home, — deep,  wild,  sheltering  woods, 


HUMORESKE 

friendly  hills,  companionable  and  never-failing 
little  rivers, — he  longed  to  be  there.  But  he  knew 
that  was  impossible.  So  why  not  Italy?  It  would 
certainly  be  an  adventure. 

And  so  it  was.  But  the  conquest  was  largely  a 
matter  of  imagination.  They  saw  the  flowing  green 
streets  of  Venice,  the  ruddy  towers  of  Bologna,  the 
grey  walls  and  dark  dome  of  Florence.  They  saw 
the  fountains  flash  in  Rome  and  the  red  fire  run 
down  the  long  slope  of  Vesuvius  at  Naples.  They 
crossed  over  to  Sicily  and  saw  ivory  Palermo  in  her 
golden  shell  and  Taormina  sitting  high  upon  the 
benches  of  her  amphitheatre.  In  that  sense  they 
conquered  and  possessed  Italy,  as  any  one  who  has 
eyes  and  a  heart  may  do. 

But  Italy  did  not  pay  much  tribute  to  their 
music.  They  had  to  travel  third-class  and  sleep 
in  the  poorest  inns,  cultivating  a  taste  for  macaroni 
and  dark  bread  writh  pallid  butter.  Still,  they  were 
merry  enough  until  they  reached  Genoa,  and  per 
ceived  that  there  was  no  reasonable  prospect  of 
their  being  able  to  make  anything  at  all  in  the  over- 
civilised  and  over-entertained  towrns  of  the  Riviera. 
122 


HUMORESKE 

"We  must  retreat,  my  children,"  said  the  Cheese, 
crinkling  his  face  over  the  sour  wine  in  a  musty 
trattoria,  "but  let  us  retreat  in  good  order  and  while 
we  have  the  means  to  do  so.  How  much  money 
in  bank?" 

They  counted  their  resources  and  found  them 
hardly  enough  to  pay  the  railway  fare  to  Bordeaux. 
Richard  insisted  upon  putting  the  remnant  of  his 
private  fortune  into  the  common  fund,  but  the  others 
would  not  have  it. 

"No,"  they  said,  "you  shall  not  give  us  money. 
But  you  may  settle  all  the  restaurant  bills  between 
here  and  Bordeaux." 

"But  I  am  not  going  to  Bordeaux,"  said  he;  "I 
am  going  to  Paris." 

At  this  there  was  voluble  protest  and  discussion. 
Richard  had  no  arguments,  but  his  determination 
was  as  fixed  as  it  was  unreasonable.  Finally  he 
forced  them  to  take  fifty  francs  as  a  loan.  At 
Lyons  the  quintette  dissolved  with  emotional  em 
braces,  the  four  going  westward,  and  he  northward 
in  the  night  train. 

When  he  walked  out  into  the  stony  desert  in 
123 


H  U  M  O  R  E  S  K  E 

front  of  the  Gare  de  Lyon  in  the  grey  chill  of  a  March 
morning,  he  had  just  two  hundred  and  twenty 
francs  in  his  pocket,  and  he  felt  that  he  was  really 
adrift  in  the  world.  There  was  nothing  for  him  to 
hold  fast  to,  no  one  who  had  need  of  him. 

He  found  a  garret  room  in  the  Rue  Cherche  Midi, 
and  looked  up  two  friends  of  his  who  were  study 
ing  at  the  Beaux  Arts.  They  introduced  him  to  a 
newspaper  correspondent  who  threw  a  bit  of  work 
in  his  way — a  fortnightly  letter  to  an  Arkansas 
paper  on  French  fashions  and  society,  at  five  dollars 
per  letter.  This  did  not  go  very  far,  but  it  retarded 
the  melting  away  of  his  estate  while  he  finished 
two  articles, — one  on  "The  Cradle  of  the  French 
Revolution,"  the  Chateau  of  Vezille,  which  he  had 
visited  during  his  week  at  the  Baths  of  Uriage, — the 
other  on  "An  Eruption  of  Vesuvius,"  which  had 
opportunely  occurred  while  he  was  in  Naples.  For 
the  first  time  in  his  life  he  wrote  directly,  simply, 
and  naturally,  describing  what  he  had  really  seen, 
and  expressing  what  he  had  really  felt  and  imagined. 
He  sent  the  articles  to  two  American  magazines 
and  relapsed  into  a  state  of  doubt  and  despair. 
124 


HUMORESKE 

He  took  what  Paris  has  to  give  a  young  man  in 
the  way  of  cheap  diversion,  but  he  found  it  as 
dusty  as  New  York.  The  long  rambles  through 
the  older  parts  of  the  city,  the  solitary  excursions 
into  the  forests  of  the  environs,  really  satisfied  and 
refreshed  him  more.  Meantime  the  feeling  that  he 
was  adrift  grew  upon  him  and  his  reserve  of  capital 
disappeared.  The  wolf  scratched  at  the  door  of  his 
garret  and  short  rations  were  necessary.  In  the 
second  week  of  May  a  remittance  arrived  from  the 
Arkansas  paper  for  his  last  two  letters,  with  the 
statement  that  they  were  not  "snappy"  enough  to 
suit  the  taste  of  the  community,  and  that  the  cor 
respondence  had  better  be  discontinued. 

So  it  was  that  he  strode  through  the  Rue  de 
Crenelle  in  the  May  twilight,  with  fifty  francs  in  his 
pocket,  resolved  to  spend  it  all  that  night — and  then? 
Well,  it  was  not  very  clear  in  his  mind,  but  cer 
tainly  he  was  not  going  back  to  his  miserable  lodg 
ing, — and  surely  there  must  be  some  way  of  making 
an  end  of  it  all  for  a  man  who  felt  that  he  was 
adrift  and  very  tired, — there  was  no  one  to  care 
much  if  he  dropped  out,  and  he  could  see  no  attrac 
tive  reason  for  going  on. 

125 


HUMORESKE 

It  was  then  that  he  heard  the  notes  of  the  humor- 
eske  coming  down  into  the  deserted  street  and  stood 
still  to  listen.  The  memories  of  the  perfect  sum 
mer  floated  around  him  again.  Something  in  the 
music  seemed  to  call  to  him,  to  plead  with  him,  to 
try  to  console  and  cheer  him  with  a  wonderful, 
playful  tenderness  like  the  pure  wordless  sympathy 
of  a  child. 

"If  she  had  only  known  how  to  play  it  like  that," 
he  said  to  himself;  "if  she  had  only  cared  enough 
— she  would  have  called  me  back.  But  here  is  a 
woman  who  does  know — and  perhaps  even  for  me 
— well,  I  will  fight  a  little  longer." 

So  he  turned  back  to  his  lonely  lodging,  guided 
and  impelled  by  something  that  he  could  not  quite 
understand,  and  did  not  even  try  to  explain.  Surely 
it  would  be  absurd  to  think  that  the  chance  hearing 
of  a  bit  of  music  could  have  an  influence  on  a  man's 
life. 

Ill 

THAT  turn  in  the  Rue  de  Crenelle  seemed  like 
the  turn  in  the  tide  of  his  fortunes.     The  morning 
mail    brought    an    order   for   five    hundred    francs, 
126 


HUMORESKE 

with  a  letter  from  the  editor  of  the  Epoch  Magazine, 
saying  that  he  liked  the  article  on  "The  Cradle  of 
the  Revolution"  very  much,  and  that  he  wished 
the  author  would  do  three  papers  for  him  on  the 
"Old  Prisons  of  Paris."  A  week  later  came  a 
letter  from  the  editor  of  The  World's  Wonders,  say 
ing  that  if  the  author  of  the  excellent  article  on 
Vesuvius  would  procure  photographic  illustrations 
of  it  at  their  expense,  they  would  be  glad  to  pay  a 
hundred  dollars  for  it,  and  asking  if  he  felt  like 
doing  two  or  three  articles  on  "The  Little  Chateaux 
of  France"  during  the  summer. 

Richard  felt,  not  so  much  that  he  was  "himself 
again,"  but  that  he  was  a  new  man.  The  touch  of 
praise  for  his  work  refreshed  him  more  than  wine. 
His  friends,  the  Beaux  Arts  men  and  the  news 
paper  correspondent,  noticed  the  change  in  him, 
and  accused  him  of  being  in  love. 

"Not  much,"  he  laughed,  "but  I  am  at  work — 
two  articles  accepted  and  commissions  for  five 
more." 

They  joyfully  gave  him  all  the  hints  and  helps 
they  could,  and  told  him  where  to  find  the  books 
127 


HUMORESKE 

that  he  needed.  He  settled  down  to  his  reading 
bravely  and  made  copious  notes  for  his  articles. 
On  Sundays  he  went  with  his  three  friends  to  spend 
the  day  at  some  resort  in  the  suburbs.  He  played 
the  violin  only  on  these  country  excursions  and 
at  night  in  his  room  when  his  eyes  were  tired. 
The  rest  of  the  time  he  toiled  terribly.  His  boyish 
dream  that  the  world  lay  at  his  feet  was  ended,  but 
instead  he  felt  that  he  had  the  power  to  do  some 
thing  fairly  good,  if  he  worked  hard  enough.  And 
then,  perhaps  some  day  he  might  have  the  good 
luck  to  meet  that  girl  whose  music  he  had  heard 
the  evening  when  the  tide  turned. 

He  wondered  what  she  looked  like.  He  had 
passed  the  house  often,  hoping  that  he  might  see 
her  or  hear  her  play  again.  But  nothing  of  that 
kind  happened.  The  windows  on  the  second  floor 
were  always  closed.  A  discreet  inquiry  at  the  glass 
door  of  the  concierge  drew  out  only  the  information 
that  Madame  Farr,  the  American  lady,  had  gone 
away  with  her  two  nieces  for  their  vacation.  The 
name  conveyed  nothing  to  him.  It  would  have 
been  absurd  to  try  to  follow  such  a  cobweb  clue, 
128 


HUMORESKE 

and  give  up  his  work  to  chase  after  an  unknown 
American  lady  and  her  invisible  nieces. 

Yet  more  and  more  the  remembrance  of  that 
strain  of  music  lingered  with  him,  strangely  pene 
trating  and  significant.  He  played  it  often  on  the 
violin.  It  came  to  be  the  symbol  of  that  summer, 
not  as  it  had  ended  in  disappointment  and  decep 
tion,  but  as  it  had  flowed  for  so  many  perfect  weeks 
in  pure  joy  and  gaiety  of  heart.  He  thought  of 
the  unseen  player  very  kindly.  He  tried  uncon 
sciously  to  make  a  picture  of  her  in  his  mind — the 
colour  of  her  hair,  her  eyes,  the  shape  of  her  face. 
He  saw  her  running  through  the  woods,  or  sitting 
between  the  knees  of  the  old  hemlock  beside  the 
river.  And  always  her  hair  was  blond  and  soft 
and  loosely  curling,  her  eyes  of  a  brown  so  bright 
and  clear  that  it  seemed  to  glow  with  hidden  gold, 
and  her  face  a  full  oval,  tinted  like  the  petal  of  a 
great  magnolia  blossom. 

"I  am  a  poor  fool,"  he  would  say  to  himself  after 

these  reveries;    "why  should  she  have  been  in  the 

least  like  Carola?     More  probably  she  had  freckles 

and  red  hair — but  she  was  a  girl  who  understood." 

129 


HUMORESKE 

When  August  came,  Richard's  friends  went  off 
for  a  holiday,  but  he  stuck  to  his  work.  The  heat 
of  Paris  was  faint  and  smothering.  On  the  first 
Sunday  he  went  out  to  St.  Germain,  loveliest  of 
all  the  Parisian  suburbs,  and  wandered  all  day  in 
the  green  and  mossy  forest.  He  was  lonely  and  de 
pressed.  Not  even  the  cool  verdure  of  the  woods, 
nor  the  splendour  of  the  view  from  the  terrace 
looking  out  over  the  curves  of  the  Seine,  and  the 
green  rolling  hills,  and  the  lines  of  light  that  led  to 
the  city  beginning  to  glow  with  a  pale  yellow 
radiance  in  the  dusk,  could  console  him.  The 
merry,  companionable  stir  of  life  around  him  made 
him  feel  more  solitary.  He  turned  away  from  the 
gay  verandah  of  the  Pavillion  Henry  IV,  which  was 
full  of  dining-parties,  and  went  back  into  the  town 
to  seek  the  quieter  garden  of  the  Pavillion  Louis 
XIV.  There  was  a  big  linden- tree  there  and  a  cer 
tain  table  at  one  side  of  it  where  he  had  dined 
before.  He  would  go  there  now  for  his  solitary 
repast. 

But  the  garden  also  was  well-patronized  that 
night.  The  white-aproned  waiters  were  running  to 
130 


HUMORESKE 

and  fro;  the  stout  landlady  in  black  silk  and  a 
lace  cap  was  moving  among  her  guests  with  beaming 
face;  a  soft  babble  of  talk  and  laughter  rose  from 
every  walk  and  corner.  When  Richard  came  to 
his  chosen  table  he  found  it  occupied  by  three 
ladies.  Disappointed,  he  was  turning  to  look  for 
another  place,  when  the  voice  of  Carola  Brune 
called  him. 

When  a  thing  like  that  happens,  a  man  does  not 
know  exactly  where  he  is,  or  how  he  feels.  The 
largeness  and  the  smallness  of  the  world  amaze 
him;  the  mystery  of  life  bewilders  him;  he  is  con 
fused  in  the  presence  of  the  unknown  quantity. 
How  he  behaves,  what  he  says  or  does,  depends 
entirely  upon  instincts  beyond  his  control. 

Richard  would  have  been  puzzled  to  give  an  ac 
count  of  his  introduction  to  Mrs.  Farr,  and  of  his 
recognition  of  the  little  sister,  now  grown  to  young 
womanhood.  The  conversation  at  the  table  where 
he  dined  with  the  family  party  was  very  vague  in 
his  mind.  He  knew  that  he  was  telling  them  about 
his  adventures,  as  if  they  were  scenes  in  a  comedy, 
and  that  he  said  a  little  about  the  turn  of  good  luck 
131 


HUMORESKE 

that  had  come  to  him  just  in  time.  He  knew  that 
Carola  was  talking  of  her  music-lessons,  and  of  her 
dear  master  and  of  his  sudden  promise  that  she 
should  have  a  concert  in  the  early  winter.  It  was 
all  very  jolly  and  friendly,  but  it  did  not  seem  quite 
real  to  him  until  he  asked  her  a  question. 

"Where  did  you  live  in  Paris  last  May?" 

"In  the  Rue  de  Grenelle,"  she  answered;  "of 
course  you  know  that  old  street." 

He  nodded  and  fell  into  silence,  letting  his  ciga 
rette  go  out,  as  he  sipped  his  coffee. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "this  has  been  delightful— it 
was  great  luck  to  meet  you.  But  I  suppose  I  should 
be  going.  The  best  of  friends  must  part." 

"But  no,"  said  Carola,  flushing  faintly,  "what 
reason  is  there  for  that  stupid  proverb  now?  My 
aunt  and  sister  always  take  a  little  walk  on  the  ter 
race  after  dinner  to  see  the  lights.  But  you  must 
let  me  show  you  what  pretty  rooms  we  have  found 
here  for  our  vacation.  I  have  to  be  near  the 
master  and  to  keep  up  my  practising,  you  know. 
I  have  a  heavenly  piano.  Don't  you  want  to  hear 
whether  I  have  improved  in  my  playing?" 
132 


HUMORESKE 

"I  do,"  he  answered,  "indeed  that  is  just  what 
I  want." 

When  they  came  into  the  little  sitting-room 
above  the  garden,  the  windows  were  wide  and  the 
room  was  cool  and  dim  and  fragrant.  Carola 
moved  about  in  the  shadow,  lighting  the  candles 
on  the  mantle-piece  and  the  tall  lamp  beside  the 
piano. 

"Now,"  she  said,  "let  us  talk  a  little." 

He  hesitated  a  moment,  and  answered:  "I  would 
rather  hear  you  play." 

"You  are  as  decided  and  dictatorial  as  ever," 
she  laughed;  "but  this  time  you  shall  have  your 
way.  What  will  you  have — a  bit  of  Chopin  or 
Grieg?  Here  is  plenty  of  music  to  choose  from." 

"No,"  he  said,  "something  that  you  know  by 
heart.  The  piece  that  you  played  in  the  Rue  de 
Grenelle  in  the  twilight  on  May  the  seventh." 

She  looked  at  him  with  startled,  wondering  eyes, 
as  if  about  to  ask  the  explanation  of  such  a  curious 
request.  Then  her  eyes  dropped,  and  her  colour 
rose,  and  she  sat  down  at  the  piano. 

The  humoreske  came  from  her  lightly  moving 
133 


HUMORESKE 

hands  as  it  had  come  on  that  spring  evening, — 
quaint,  tender,  consoling,  caressing, — but  now  with 
a  new  accent  of  joy  in  it,  a  quicker,  almost  exulting 
movement  in  the  dancing  passages.  Richard  lis 
tened,  standing  close  behind  her,  watching  the  play 
of  her  firm,  rounded  fingers,  breathing  the  fragrance 
that  rose  from  her  hair  and  her  white  neck. 

When  she  turned  on  the  stool  he  was  kneeling 
beside  her,  and  his  hands  were  stretched  out  to 
take  hers. 

"Let  me  tell  you,"  he  exclaimed,  "let  me  tell 
you  what  a  fool  I  have  been. " 

So  she  sat  very  still  while  he  told  her  of  his  fail 
ure  at  college,  and  how  he  had  gone  wild  after 
ward,  and  how  bitter  he  had  been,  and  how  lonely. 
The  adventure  with  the  travelling  musicians  had 
led  to  nothing,  and  his  assurance  of  winning  fame 
with  his  violin  or  with  his  pen  had  come  to  nothing. 
He  was  at  the  edge  of  the  big  darkness  on  that 
May  evening,  when  she  had  brought  the  turn  of 
the  tide  without  knowing  it.  And  even  now  things 
were  not  much  better,  but  still  he  had  a  fighting 
chance  to  make  himself  amount  to  something. 
134 


HUMORESKE 

He  could  write,  and  he  would  work  at  it  as  a  man 
must  work  at  his  calling.  He  could  play  the  vio 
lin,  and  he  would  make  it  his  avocation  and  refresh 
ment.  She  was  going  on,  he  knew,  to  win  a  great 
success.  He  would  rejoice  in  it — he  loved  her 
with  all  his  heart — she  must  know  that — but  he 
had  nothing  to  offer  her.  He  was  too  poor  to  ask 
her  for  anything  now. 

Her  hands  trembled  as  he  bent  to  kiss  them. 
In  her  shining  eyes  there  was  a  strange,  sweet, 
deep  smile.  She  leaned  over  him,  and  he  felt  the 
warmth  of  her  breath  on  his  forehead  as  she  whis 
pered:  "Richard,  couldn't  you  even  ask  me  for 
the  humoreske?" 


135 


HALF-TOLD  TALES 

AN   OLD   GAME 

THE  UNRULY  SPRITE 

A  CHANGE  OF  AIR 


THREE  men  were  taking  a  walk  together,  as  they 
said,  just  to  while  away  the  time. 

The  first  man  intended  to  go  Somewhere,  to  look 
at  a  piece  of  property  wrhich  he  was  considering. 
The  second  man  was  ready  to  go  Anywhere,  since 
he  expected  to  be  happy  by  the  way.  The  third 
man  thought  he  was  going  Nowhere,  because  he 
was  a  philosopher  and  held  that  time  and  space 
are  only  mental  forms. 

Therefore  the  third  man  walked  in  silence,  reflect 
ing  upon  the  vanity  of  whiling  away  an  hour  which 
did  not  exist,  and  upon  the  futility  of  going  when 
staying  was  the  same  thing.  But  the  other  men, 

139 


AN  OLD   GAME 

being  more  simple,  were  playing  the  oldest  game  in 
the  world  and  giving  names  to  the  things  that  they 
saw  as  they  travelled. 

"Mutton,"  said  the  Somewhere  Man,  as  he  looked 
over  a  stone  wall. 

"A  flock  of  sheep,"  said  the  Anywhere  Man, 
gazing  upon  the  pasture,  where  the  fleecy  ewes  were 
nipping  grass  between  the  rocks  and  the  eager 
lambs  nuzzled  their  mothers. 

But  the  Nowhere  Man  meditated  on  the  foolish 
habit  of  eating,  and  said  nothing. 

"An  ant-hill,"  said  the  Anywhere  Man,  looking 
at  a  mound  beside  the  path;  "see  how  busy  the 
citizens  are!" 

"Pismires,"  said  the  Somewhere  Man,  kicking 
the  mound;  "they  sting  like  the  devil." 

But  the  Nowhere  Man,  being  certain  that  the 
devil  is  a  myth,  said  nothing7. 

"Briars,"  said  the  Somewhere  Man,  as  they 
passed  through  a  coppice. 

"Blackberries,"  said  the  Anywhere  Man;  "they 
will  blossom  next  month  and  ripen  in  August." 

But  the  Nowhere  Man,  to  whom  they  referred 
140 


AN  OLD   GAME 

the  settlement  of  the  first  round  of  the  game,  de 
cided  that  both  had  lost  because  they  spoke  only  of 
accidental  phenomena. 

With  the  next  round  they  came  into  a  little  forest 
on  a  sandy  hill.  The  oak-trees  were  still  bare,  and 
the  fir-trees  were  rusty  green,  and  the  maple-trees 
were  in  rosy  bud.  On  these  things  the  travellers 
were  agreed. 

But  among  the  withered  foliage  on  the  ground  a 
vine  trailed  far  and  wide  with  verdant  leaves,  thick 
and  heavy,  and  under  the  leaves  were  clusters  of 
rosy  stars,  breathing  a  wonderful  sweetness,  so  that 
the  travellers  could  not  but  smell  it. 

"Rough-leaf,"  said  the  Somewhere  Man;  "gravel- 
weed  we  call  it  in  our  country,  because  it  marks  the 
poorest  soil." 

"Trailing  arbutus,"  said  the  Anywhere  Man; 
"May-flowers  we  call  them  in  our  country." 

"But  why?"  asked  the  Nowhere  Man.  "May 
has  not  yet  come." 

"She  is  coming,"  answered  the  other;  "she  will 
be  here  before  these  are  gone." 

On  the  other  side  of  the  wood  they  entered  a 
141 


AN  OLD   GAME 

meadow  where  a  little  bird  was  bubbling  over  with 
music  in  the  air. 

"Skunk-blackbird,"  said  the  Somewhere  Man; 
"colours  the  same  as  a  skunk." 

"Bobolink,"  said  the  Anywhere  Man;  "spills  his 
song  while  he  flies." 

"It  is  a  silly  name,"  said  the  Nowhere  Man. 
"Where  did  you  find  it?" 

"I  don't  know,"  answered  the  other;  "it  just 
sounds  to  me  like  the  bird." 

By  this  time  it  was  clear  that  the  two  men  did  not 
play  the  game  by  the  same  rules,  but  they  went  on 
playing,  just  as  other  people  do. 

They  saw  a  little  thatched  house  beside  the 
brook.  "Beastly  hovel,"  said  the  first  man. 
"Pretty  cottage,"  said  the  second. 

A  woman  was  tossing  and  fondling  her  child, 
with  kiss-words.  "Sickly  sentiment,"  said  the  first 
man.  "Mother  love,"  said  the  second. 

They  passed  a  youth  sleeping  on  the  grass  under 
a  tree.  "  Lazy  hound ! "  said  the  first  man.  "  Happy 
dog!"  said  the  second. 

Now  the  third  man,  remembering  that  he  was  a 
142 


AN  OLD   GAME 

philosopher,  concluded  that  he  was  wasting  his 
imaginary  time  in  hearing  this  endless  old  game. 

"I  must  bid  you  good-day,  gentlemen,"  said  he, 
"for  it  seems  to  me  that  you  are  disputing  only 
about  appearances,  and  are  not  likely  to  arrive 
Somewhere  or  Anywhere.  But  I  am  seeking  das 
Ding  an  sich." 

So  he  left  them,  and  went  on  his  way  Nowhere. 
And  I  know  not  which  of  the  others  won  the  game, 
but  I  think  the  second  man  had  more  pleasure  in 
playing  it. 


143 


THE  UNRULY  SPRITE 


A    PARTIAL   FAIRY   TALE 

iHERE  was  once  a  man  who  was  also  a  writer 
of  books. 

The  merit  of  his  books  lies  beyond  the  horizon  of 
this  tale.  No  doubt  some  of  them  were  good,  and 
some  of  them  were  bad,  and  some  were  merely  pop 
ular.  But  he  was  all  the  time  trying  to  make  them 
better,  for  he  was  quite  an  honest  man,  and  thank 
ful  that  the  world  should  give  him  a  living  for  his 
writing.  Moreover,  he  found  great  delight  in  the 
doing  of  it,  which  was  something  that  did  not  enter 
into  the  world's  account — a  kind  of  daily  Christmas 
present  in  addition  to  his  wages. 
144 


THE  UNRULY  SPRITE 

But  the  interesting  thing  about  the  man  was  that 
he  had  a  clan  or  train  of  little  sprites  attending  him 
— small,  delicate,  aerial  creatures,  who  came  and 
went  around  him  at  their  pleasure,  and  showed  him 
wonderful  things,  and  sang  to  him,  and  kept  him 
from  being  discouraged,  and  often  helped  him  with 
his  work. 

If  you  ask  me  what  they  were  and  where  they 
came  from,  I  must  frankly  tell  you  that  I  do  not 
know.  Neither  did  the  man  know.  Neither  does 
anybody  else  know. 

But  the  man  had  sense  enough  to  understand 
that  they  were  real — just  as  real  as  any  of  the 
other  mysterious  things,  like  microbes,  and  polo 
nium,  and  chemical  affinities,  and  the  northern 
lights,  by  which  we  are  surrounded.  Sometimes  it 
seemed  as  if  the  sprites  were  the  children  of  the 
flowers  that  die  in  blooming;  and  sometimes  as  if  they 
came  in  a  flock  with  the  birds  from  the  south;  and 
sometimes  as  if  they  rose  one  by  one  from  the  roots 
of  the  trees  in  the  deep  forest,  or  from  the  waves  of 
the  sea  when  the  moon  lay  upon  them;  and  some 
times  as  if  they  appeared  suddenly  in  the  streets  of 
145 


THE  UNRULY  SPRITE 

the  city  after  the  people  had  passed  by  and  the 
houses  had  gone  to  sleep.  They  were  as  light  as 
thistle-down,  as  unsubstantial  as  mists  upon  the 
mountain,  as  wayward  and  flickering  as  will-o'-the- 
wisps.  But  there  was  something  immortal  about 
them,  and  the  man  knew  that  the  world  would  be 
nothing  to  him  without  their  presence  and  com 
radeship. 

Most  of  these  attendant  sprites  were  gentle  and 
docile;  but  there  was  one  who  had  a  strain  of 
wildness  in  him.  In  his  hand  he  carried  a  bow, 
and  at  his  shoulder  a  quiver  of  arrows,  and  he 
looked  as  if,  some  day  or  other,  he  might  be  up  to 
mischief. 

Now  this  man  was  much  befriended  by  a  certain 
lady,  to  whom  he  used  to  bring  his  stories  in  order 
that  she  might  tell  him  whether  they  were  good,  or 
bad,  or  merely  popular.  But  whatever  she  might 
think  of  the  stories,  always  she  liked  the  man,  and 
of  the  airy  fluttering  sprites  she  grew  so  fond  that 
it  almost  seemed  as  if  they  were  her  own  children. 
This  was  not  unnatural,  for  they  were  devoted  to 
her;  they  turned  the  pages  of  her  book  when  she 
146 


THE  UNRULY  SPRITE 

read;  they  made  her  walks  through  the  forest 
pleasant  and  friendly;  they  lit  lanterns  for  her  in 
the  dark;  they  brought  flowers  to  her  and  sang  to 
her,  as  well  as  to  the  man.  Of  this  he  was  glad, 
because  of  his  great  friendship  for  the  lady  and  his 
desire  to  see  her  happy. 

But  one  day  she  complained  to  him  of  the  sprite 
who  carried  the  bow.  "He  is  behaving  badly," 
said  she;  "he  teases  me." 

"That  surprises  me,"  said  the  man,  "and  I  am 
distressed  to  hear  it;  for  at  heart  he  is  rather  good, 
and  to  you  he  is  deeply  attached.  But  how  does 
he  tease  you,  dear  lady?  What  does  he  do?" 

"Oh,  nothing,"  she  answered,  "and  that  is  what 
annoys  me.  The  others  are  all  busy  with  your 
affairs  or  mine.  But  this  idle  one  follows  me  like 
my  shadow,  and  looks  at  me  all  the  time.  It  is  not 
at  all  polite.  I  fear  he  has  a  vacant  mind  and  has 
not  been  well  brought  up." 

"That  may  easily  be,"  said  the  man,  "for  he 
came  to  me  very  suddenly  one  day,  and  I  have 
never  inquired  about  his  education." 

"But  you  ought  to  do  so,"  said  she;  "it  is  your 
147 


THE  UNRULY  SPRITE 

duty  to  have  him  taught  to  know  his  place,  and  not 
to  tease,  and  other  useful  lessons." 

"You  are  always  right,"  said  the  man,  "and  it 
shall  be  just  as  you  say." 

On  the  way  home  he  talked  seriously  to  the 
sprite,  and  told  him  how  impolite  he  had  been, 
and  arranged  a  plan  for  his  schooling  in  botany, 
diplomacy,  music,  psychology,  deportment,  and 
other  useful  studies. 

The  rest  of  the  sprites  came  in  to  the  school-room 
every  day,  to  get  some  of  the  profitable  lessons. 
They  sat  around  quiet  and  orderly,  so  that  it  was 
quite  like  a  kindergarten.  But  the  principal  pupil 
was  restless  and  troublesome. 

"You  are  never  still,"  said  the  man;  "you  have 
an  idle  mind  and  wandering  thoughts." 

"  No ! "  said  the  sprite,  shaking  his  head.  "  It  is  true, 
my  mind  is  not  on  my  lessons.  But  my  thoughts 
do  not  wander  at  all.  They  always  follow  yours." 

Then  the   man  stopped   talking,   and  the  other 

sprites  laughed  behind  their  hands.     But  the  one 

who  had  been  reproved  went  on  drawing  pictures 

in  the  back  of  his  botany  book.     The  face  in  the 

148 


THE   UNRULY  SPRITE 

pictures  was  always  the  same,  but  none  of  them 
seemed  to  satisfy  him,  for  he  always  rubbed  them 
out  and  began  over  again. 

After  several  weeks  of  hard  work  the  master 
thought  his  pupil  must  have  learned  something,  so 
he  gave  him  a  holiday,  and  asked  him  what  he  would 
like  to  do. 

"Go  with  you,"  he  answered,  "when  you  take 
her  your  new  stories." 

So  they  went  together,  and  the  lady  compli 
mented  the  writer  on  his  success  as  an  educator. 

"Your  pupil  does  you  credit,"  said  she;  "he 
talks  very  nicely  about  botany  and  deportment. 
But  I  am  a  little  troubled  to  see  him  looking  so 
pale.  Perhaps  you  have  been  too  severe  with  him. 
I  must  take  him  out  in  the  garden  with  me  every 
day  to  play  a  while." 

"You  have  a  kind  heart,"  said  the  man,  "and  I 
hope  he  will  appreciate  it." 

This  agreeable  and  amicable  life  continued  for 
some  weeks,  and  everybody  was  glad  that  affairs 
had  arranged  themselves.  But  one  day  the  lady 
brought  a  new  complaint. 

149 


THE  UNRULY  SPRITE 

"He  is  a  strange  little  creature,  and  he  has  begun 
to  annoy  me  in  the  most  extraordinary  way." 

"That  is  bad,"  said  the  man.  "What  does  he 
do  now?" 

"Oh,  nothing,"  she  answered,  "and  that  is  just 
the  trouble.  When  I  want  to  talk  about  you,  he 
refuses,  and  says  he  does  not  like  you  as  much  as 
he  used  to.  When  I  propose  to  play  a  game,  he 
says  he  is  tired  and  would  rather  sit  under  a  tree 
and  hear  stories.  WThen  I  tell  them  he  says  they 
do  not  suit  him,  they  all  end  happily,  and  that  is 
stupid.  He  is  very  perverse.  But  he  clings  to  me 
like  a  bur.  He  is  always  teasing  me  to  tell  him 
the  name  of  every  flower  in  my  garden  and  give 
him  one  of  every  kind." 

"Is  he  rude  about  it?" 

"Not  exactly  rude,  but  he  is  all  the  more  annoy 
ing  because  he  is  so  polite,  and  I  always  feel  that  he 
wants  something  different." 

"He  must  not  do  that,"  said  the  man.  "He  must 
learn  to  want  what  you  wish." 

"But  how  can  he  learn  what  I  wish?     I  do  not 
always  know  that  myself." 
150 


THE   UNRULY  SPRITE 

"It  may  be  difficult,"  said  the  man,  "but  all  the 
same  he  must  learn  it  for  your  sake.  I  will  deal 
with  him." 

So  he  took  the  unruly  sprite  out  into  the  desert 
and  gave  him  a  sound  beating  with  thorn  branches. 
The  blood  ran  down  the  poor  little  creature's  arms 
and  legs,  and  the  tears  down  the  man's  cheeks. 
But  the  only  words  that  he  said  were:  "You  must 
learn  to  want  what  she  wishes — do  you  hear? — 
you  must  want  what  she  wishes."  At  last  the 
sprite  whimpered  and  said:  "Yes,  I  hear;  I  will 
wish  what  she  wants."  Then  the  man  stopped 
beating  him,  and  went  back  to  his  house,  and  wrote 
a  little  story  that  was  really  good. 

But  the  sprite  lay  on  his  face  in  the  desert  for  a 
long  time,  sobbing  as  if  his  heart  would  break. 
Then  he  fell  asleep  and  laughed  in  his  dreams. 
When  he  awoke  it  was  night  and  the  moon  was 
shining  silver.  He  rubbed  his  eyes  and  whispered 
to  himself:  "Now  I  must  find  out  what  she  wants." 
With  that  he  leaped  up,  and  the  moonbeams  washed 
him  white  as  he  passed  through  them  to  the  lady's 
house. 

151 


THE  UNRULY  SPRITE 

The  next  afternoon,  when  the  man  came  to  read 
her  the  really  good  story,  she  would  not  listen. 

"No,"  she  said,  "I  am  very  angry  with  you." 

"Why?" 

"You  know  well  enough." 

"Upon  my  honour,  I  do  not." 

"What?"  cried  the  lady.  "You  profess  igno 
rance,  when  he  distinctly  said — 

"Pardon,"  said  the  man;   "but  who  said?" 

"Your  unruly  sprite,"  she  answered,  indignant. 
"He  came  last  night  outside  my  window,  which  was 
wide  open  for  the  moon,  and  shot  an  arrow  into  my 
breast — a  little  baby  arrow,  but  it  hurt.  And  when 
I  cried  out  for  the  pain,  he  climbed  up  to  me  and 
kissed  the  place,  saying  that  would  make  it  well. 
And  he  swore  that  you  made  him  promise  to  come. 
If  that  is  true,  I  will  never  speak  to  you  again." 

"Then  of  course,"  said  the  man,  "it  is  not  true. 
And  now  what  do  you  want  me  to  do  with  this 
unruly  sprite?" 

"Get  rid  of  him,"  said  she  firmly. 

"I  will,"  replied  the  man,  and  he  bowed  over  her 
hand  and  went  away. 

He  stayed  for  a  long  time — nearly  a  week — and 
152 


THE   UNRULY  SPRITE 

when  he  came  back  he  brought  several  sad  verses 
with  him  to  read.  "They  are  very  dull,"  said  the 
lady;  "what  is  the  matter  with  you?"  He  con 
fessed  that  he  did  not  know,  and  began  to  talk 
learnedly  about  the  Greek  and  Persian  poets,  until 
the  lady  was  consumed  with  a  fever  of  dulness. 

"You  are  simply  impossible!"  she  cried.  "I 
wonder  at  myself  for  having  chosen  such  a  friend!" 

"I  am  sorry  indeed,"  said  the  man. 

"For  what?" 

"For  having  disappointed  you  as  a  friend,  and 
also  for  having  lost  my  dear  unruly  sprite  who  kept 
me  from  being  dull." 

" Lost  him ! "  exclaimed  the  lady.     " How?  " 

"By  now,"  said  the  man,  "he  must  be  quite 
dead,  for  I  tied  him  to  a  tree  in  the  forest  five  days 
ago  and  left  him  to  starve." 

"You  are  a  brute,"  said  the  lady,  "and  a  very 
stupid  man.  Come,  take  me  to  the  tree.  At  least 
we  can  bury  the  poor  sprite,  and  then  we  shall  part 
forever." 

So  he  took  her  by  the  hand   and   guided  her 
through  the  woods,  and  they  talked  much  of  the 
sadness  of  parting  forever. 
153 


THE  UNRULY  SPRITE 

When  they  came  to  the  tree,  there  was  the  little 
sprite,  with  his  wrists  and  ankles  bound,  lying  upon 
the  moss.  His  eyes  were  closed,  and  his  body  was 
white  as  a  snowdrop.  They  knelt  down,  one  on 
each  side  of  him,  and  untied  the  cord.  To  their 
surprise  his  hands  felt  warm.  "I  believe  he  is  not 
quite  dead,"  said  the  lady.  "Shall  we  try  to  bring 
him  to  life?"  asked  the  man.  And  with  that  they 
fell  to  chafing  his  wrists  and  his  palms.  Presently 
he  gave  each  of  them  a  slight  pressure  of  the  fingers. 

"Did  you  feel  that?"  cried  she. 

"Indeed  I  did,"  the  man  answered.  "It  shook 
me  to  the  core.  Would  you  like  to  take  him  on 
your  lap  so  that  I  can  chafe  his  feet?" 

The  lady  nodded  and  took  the  soft  little  body  on 
her  knees  and  held  it  close  to  her,  while  the  man 
kneeled  before  her  rubbing  the  small,  milk-white 
feet  with  strong  and  tender  touches.  Presently,  as 
they  were  thus  engaged,  they  heard  the  sprite 
faintly  whispering,  while  one  of  his  eyelids  flickered: 

"I  think — if  each  of  you — would  kiss  me — on  op 
posite  cheeks — at  the  same  moment — those  kind  of 
movements  would  revive  me." 
154 


The  Unruly  Sprite. 


THE  UNRULY  SPRITE 

The  two  friends  looked  at  each  other,  and  the 
man  spoke  first. 

"He  talks  ungrammatically,  and  I  think  he  is  an 
incorrigible  little  savage,  but  I  love  him.  Shall  we 
try  his  idea?" 

"If  you  love  him,"  said  the  lady,  "I  am  willing 
to  try,  provided  you  shut  your  eyes." 

So  they  both  shut  their  eyes  and  tried. 

But  just  at  that  moment  the  unruly  sprite  slipped 
down,  and  put  his  hands  behind  their  heads,  and  the 
two  mouths  that  sought  his  cheeks  met  lip  to  lip 
in  a  kiss  so  warm,  so  long,  so  sweet  that  everything 
else  was  forgotten. 

Now  you  can  easily  see  that  as  the  persons  who 
had  this  strange  experience  were  the  ones  who  told 
me  the  tale,  their  forgetfulness  at  this  point  leaves 
it  of  necessity  half-told.  But  I  know  from  other 
sources  that  the  man  who  was  also  a  writer  went  on 
making  books,  and  the  lady  always  told  him  truly 
whether  they  were  good,  or  bad,  or  merely  popular. 
But  what  the  unruly  sprite  is  doing  now  nobody 
knows. 


155 


A  CHANGE  OF  AIR. 


I.  HERE  were  three  neighbours  who  lived  side  by 
side  in  a  certain  village.  They  were  bound  together 
by  the  contiguousness  of  their  back  yards  and 
front  porches,  and  by  a  community  of  interest  in 
taxes  and  water-rates  and  the  high  cost  of  living. 
They  were  separated  by  their  religious  opinions; 
for  one  of  them  was  a  Mystic,  and  the  second  was 
a  Sceptic,  and  the  other  was  a  suppressed  Dyspep 
tic  who  called  himself  an  Asthmatic. 

These  differences  were  very  dear  to  them,  and 
laid  the  foundations  of  a  lasting  friendship  in  a 
nervous  habit  of  interminable  argument  on  all  pos- 
156 


A  CHANGE  OF  AIR 

sible  subjects.  Their  wives  did  not  share  in  these 
disputations  because  they  were  resolved  to  be 
neighbourly,  and  they  could  not  conceive  a  differ 
ence  of  opinion  without  a  personal  application.  So 
they  called  one  another  Clara  and  Caroline  and 
Katharine,  and  kissed  audibly  whenever  they  met, 
but  they  were  careful  to  confine  their  conversation 
to  topics  upon  which  they  had  only  one  mind,  such 
as  the  ingratitude  of  domestic  servants. 

The  husbands,  however,  as  often  as  they  could 
get  together  without  the  mollifying  influence  of  the 
feminine  presence,  continued  their  debates  with  de 
lightful  ferocity,  finding  matter  in  each  event  of 
life,  though  clear,  and  especially  in  those  which  had 
not  yet  occurred.  So  they  had  a  very  happy  time, 
and  their  friendship  deepened  from  day  to  day. 

"I  can  see  your  point  of  view,"  one  of  them  would 
say,  after  an  apparently  harmless  proposition  had 
been  advanced.  "Perhaps  so,"  the  other  would 
reply,  clinging  desperately  to  the  advantage  of  the 
first  service  in  definitions,  "but  you  certainly  do 
not  understand  it." 

Whereupon  the  third  had  the  pleasure  of  show- 
157 


A  CHANGE  OF  AIR 

ing  that  neither  of  the  others  knew  what  he  was 
talking  about.  This  invariably  resulted  in  their 
combining  against  him,  and  usually  to  his  gain,  be 
cause  he  was  able  to  profit  by  the  inconsistencies 
of  their  double  play. 

But  of  all  earthly  pleasures,  as  Sancho  Panza 
said,  there  cometh  in  the  end  satiety.  The  neigh 
bours,  after  several  years  of  refreshing  colloquial 
combat,  felt  an  alarming  decline  of  virility  and  the 
approach  of  an  anaemic  peace.  Their  arguments 
grew  monotonous,  remote,  repetitious,  amounting 
to  little  more  than  a  bald  statement  of  position: 
"Here  I  stand "— " There  you  stand"— "There  he 
stands," — "What  is  the  use  of  talking  about  it?" 
The  salt  and  pepper  had  vanished  from  their  table 
of  conversation,  and  as  each  man  silently  chewed 
his  own  favourite  cereal,  they  all  felt  as  if  the 
banqueting-days  were  ended  and  each  must  say  to 
the  others: 

"Grow  old  apart  from  me, 
The  worst  is  yet  to  be." 

One  night  as  they  were  about  to  separate,  long 
before  midnight,  without  a  single  spirited  contro- 
158 


A  CHANGE  OF  AIR 

versy,  they  looked  at  one  another  sadly,  as  men 
who  felt  the  approach  of  a  common  misfortune. 

"The  trouble  is,"  said  the  Mystic,  who  disliked 
nothing  so  much  as  solitude,  "we  do  not  meditate 
enough,  and  so  the  springs  of  our  inspiration  from 
the  Oversoul  are  running  dry." 

"The  trouble  is,"  said  the  Sceptic,  whose  doubts 
were  more  dogmatic  than  dogmas,  "that  our  fixed 
ideas  are  choking  the  feed-pipes  of  our  minds." 

"The  trouble  is,"  wheezed  the  Asthmatic,  whose 
suppressed  dyspepsia  gave  him  an  enormous  appe 
tite,  "modern  life  is  demoralised,  especially  in  do 
mestic  service.  In  the  last  month  my  wife  has  had 
five  cooks,  and  she  whom  she  now  has  is  not  a  cook. 
Hygiene  is  the  basis  of  sound  thinking." 

This  sudden  and  unexpected  renewal  of  the  joy  of 
disputation  cheered  them  greatly,  and  they  discussed 
it  for  several  hours,  arriving,  as  usual,  at  the  same 
practical  conclusions  from  the  most  diverse  premises. 

They  all  agreed  that  the  trouble  was. 

To  cure  it  nothing  could  be  better  than  a  change 
of  air.  So  they  resolved  to  make  a  little  journey 
together. 

159 


A  CHANGE  OF  AIR 

They  went  first  to  New  York,  and  the  size  of  it 
impressed  them  immensely.  The  Sceptic  was  de 
lighted  with  the  Cathedral  of  St.  John  the  Divine, 
because,  as  he  said,  it  was  so  unmistakably  human. 
The  Mystic  was  delighted  with  the  theatres,  be 
cause,  as  he  said,  most  of  the  plays  seemed  so  super 
human.  The  Asthmatic  was  delighted  with  the 
subway,  because,  as  he  said,  the  ventilation  was  so 
satisfactory.  It  was  like  eating  bread-pudding  on 
a  steam-boat;  you  knew  exactly  what  you  were  get 
ting;  all  the  microbes  were  blended,  and  they  neu 
tralised  each  other. 

Their  next  point  of  visitation  was  Chicago,  where 
they  had  heard  that  a  new  Literary  School  was  aris 
ing  with  a  noise  like  thunder  out  of  the  lake.  They 
attended  many  club-meetings,  and  revolved  rapidly 
in  the  highest  literary  circles,  coming  around  invari 
ably  to  the  point  from  which  they  had  started. 

"This  is  tiresome,"  said  the  Mystic;  "the  Over- 
soul  is  not  in  it." 

"It  is  narrowing,"  said  the  Sceptic;  "these  peo 
ple  are  the  most  bigoted  unbelievers  I  ever  saw." 

"It  is  unwholesome,"  said  the  Asthmatic,  "but  I 
160 


A  CHANGE  OF  AIR 

think  I  could  digest  the  stuff  if  I  could  only  breathe 
more  easily.     This  wind  is  too  strong  for  me." 

So  they  agreed  to  go  to  Philadelphia  for  a  rest. 
The  clerk  in  the  colonial  hotel  to  which  they  re 
paired  assured  them  that  the  house  was  crowded — 
he  had  only  one  room,  a  parlour,  which  he  could  fit 
up  with  three  beds  if  they  would  accept  it. 

The  room  was  large  and  old-fashioned.  A  tall 
bookcase  with  glass  doors  stood  against  the  wall. 
The  three  beds  were  arranged,  side  by  side,  in  the 
middle  of  the  room.  "This  is  like  home,"  cried 
the  neighbours,  and  they  lay  until  midnight  in  a 
sweet  ferocity  of  dispute  over  the  moral  character 
of  Benjamin  Franklin. 

A  couple  of  hours  later  the  Asthmatic  was  awak 
ened  from  a  sound  sleep  by  a  terrible  attack  of  short 
breathing. 

"Open  the  window,"  he  gasped;  "I  am  choking 
to  death." 

The  Mystic  sprang  from  bed  and  groped  along 
the  wall  for  the  electric-light  button,  but  could  not 
find  it.  Then  he  groped  for  the  window  and  his 
hand  touched  the  glass. 

161 


A  CHANGE  OF  AIR 

"It  is  fastened,"  he  cried;  "I  can't  find  the  catch. 
It  will  not  move  up  or  down." 

"I  shall  die,"  groaned  the  Asthmatic,  "unless  I 
have  air.  Break  the  window-pane !" 

So  the  Mystic  felt  for  the  footstool,  over  which 
he  had  just  stubbed  his  toes,  and  used  the  corner 
of  it  to  smash  the  glass. 

"Ah,"  said  the  Asthmatic,  with  a  long  sigh  of  re 
lief,  "I  am  better.  There  is  nothing  like  fresh  air." 

Then  they  all  went  to  sleep  again. 

The  morning  roused  them  slowly,  and  they  lay 
on  their  backs  looking  around  the  room.  The  win 
dows  were  closed  and  the  shades  drawn. 

But  the  glass  door  of  the  bookcase  had  a  great 
hole  in  it! 

"You  see!"  said  the  Mystic.  "It  was  the  faith 
cure.  The  Oversoul  cured  you." 

"Not  at  all,"  said  the  Sceptic.  " It  was  the  doubt 
cure.  The  way  to  get  rid  of  a  thing  is  to  doubt 
it." 

"I  think,"  said  the  Asthmatic,  "that  it  was  the 
nightmare,  and  that  miscellaneous  cooking  is  the 
cause  of  human  misery.  We  have  travelled  enough, 
162 


A   CHANGE  OF  AIR 

and  yet  we  have  found  no  better  air  than  we  left  at 
home." 

So  they  went  back  to  the  certain  village  and  con 
tinued  their  disputations  very  happily  for  the  rest 
of  their  lives. 


163 


THE    NIGHT    CALL 


THE    NIGHT    CALL 
I 

JL  HE  first  caprice  of  November  snow  had  sketched 
the  world  in  white  for  an  hour  in  the  morning.  After 
mid-day,  the  sun  came  out,  the  wind  turned  warm, 
and  the  whiteness  vanished  from  the  landscape.  By 
evening,  the  low  ridges  and  the  long  plain  of  New 
Jersey  were  rich  and  sad  again,  in  russet  and  dull 
crimson  and  old  gold;  for  the  foliage  still  clung  to  the 
oaks  and  elms  and  birches,  and  the  dying  monarchy 
of  autumn  retreated  slowly  before  winter's  cold  re 
public. 

In  the  old  town  of  Calvinton,  stretched  along  the 
highroad,  the  lamps  were  lit  early  as  the  saffron  sun 
set  faded  into  humid  night.  A  mist  rose  from  the 
long,  wet  street  and  the  sodden  lawns,  muffling  the 
houses  and  the  trees  and  the  college  towers  with  a 
double  veil,  under  which  a  pallid  aureole  encircled 
every  light,  while  the  moon  above,  languid  and  tear 
ful,  waded  slowly  through  the  mounting  fog.  It  was 
167 


THE  NIGHT  CALL 

a  night  of  delay  and  expectation,  a  night  of  remem 
brance  and  mystery,  lonely  and  dim  and  full  of 
strange,  dull  sounds. 

In  one  of  the  smaller  houses  on  the  main  street  the 
light  in  the  window  burned  late.  Leroy  Carmichael 
was  alone  in  his  office  reading  Balzac's  story  of  "The 
Country  Doctor."  He  was  not  a  gloomy  or  de 
spondent  person,  but  the  spirit  of  the  night  had 
entered  into  him.  He  had  yielded  himself,  as  young 
men  of  ardent  temperament  often  do,  to  the  sub 
duing  magic  of  the  fall.  In  his  mind,  as  in  the  air, 
there  was  a  soft,  clinging  mist,  and  blurred  lights  of 
thought,  and  a  still  foreboding  of  change.  A  sense 
of  the  vast  tranquil  movement  of  Nature,  of  her 
sympathy  and  of  her  indifference,  sank  deeply  into 
his  heart.  For  a  time  he  realised  that  all  things, 
and  he,  too,  some  day,  must  grow  old;  and  he  felt 
the  universal  pathos  of  it  more  sensitively,  perhaps, 
than  he  would  ever  feel  it  again. 

If  you  had  told  Carmichael  that  this  was  what  he 
was  thinking  about  as  he  sat  in  his  bachelor  quarters 
on  that  November  night,  he  would  have  stared  at 
you  and  then  laughed. 

168 


THE  NIGHT  CALL 

"Nonsense,"  he  would  have  answered,  cheer 
fully.  "I'm  no  sentimentalist:  only  a  bit  tired  by  a 
hard  afternoon's  work  and  a  rough  ride  home.  Then, 
Balzac  always  depresses  me  a  little.  The  next  time 
I'll  take  some  quinine  and  Dumas:  he  is  a  tonic." 

But,  in  fact,  no  one  came  in  to  interrupt  his  mus 
ings  and  rouse  him  to  that  air  of  cheerfulness  with 
which  he  always  faced  the  world,  and  to  which,  in 
deed  (though  he  did  not  know  it),  he  owed  some 
measure  of  his  delay  in  winning  the  confidence  of 
Calvinton. 

He  had  come  there  some  five  years  ago  with  a 
particularly  good  outfit  to  practice  medicine  in  that 
quaint  and  alluring  old  burgh,  full  of  antique  hand 
made  furniture  and  traditions.  He  had  not  only 
been  well  trained  for  his  profession  in  the  best  medi 
cal  school  and  hospital  of  New  York,  but  he  was 
also  a  graduate  of  Calvinton  College  (in  which  his 
father  had  been  a  professor  for  a  time),  and  his 
granduncle  was  a  Grubb,  a  name  high  in  the  Golden 
Book  of  Calvintonian  aristocracy  and  inscribed  upon 
tombstones  in  every  village  within  a  radius  of  fifteen 
miles.  Consequently  the  young  doctor  arrived  well 
169 


THE   NIGHT   CALL 

accredited,  and  was  received  in  his  first  year  with 
many  tokens  of  hospitality  in  the  shape  of  tea-parties 
and  suppers. 

But  the  final  and  esoteric  approval  of  Calvinton 
was  a  thing  apart  from  these  mere  fashionable 
courtesies  and  worldly  amenities — a  thing  not  to 
be  bestowed  without  due  consideration  and  satisfac 
tory  reasons.  Leroy  Carmichael  failed,  somehow  or 
other,  to  come  up  to  the  requirements  for  a  leading 
physician  in  such  a  conservative  community.  In 
the  judgment  of  Calvinton  he  was  a  clever  young 
man;  but  he  lacked  poise  and  gravity.  He  walked 
too  lightly  along  the  streets,  swinging  his  stick,  and 
greeting  his  acquaintances  blithely,  as  if  he  were 
rather  glad  to  be  alive.  Now  this  is  a  sentiment, 
if  you  analyse  it,  near  akin  to  vanity,  and,  therefore, 
to  be  discountenanced  in  your  neighbour  and  con 
cealed  in  yourself.  How  can  a  man  be  glad  that  he 
is  alive,  and  frankly  show  it,  without  a  touch  of  con 
ceit  and  a  reprehensible  forgetfulness  of  the  presence 
of  original  sin  even  in  the  best  families?  The  man 
ners  of  a  professional  man,  above  all,  should  at  once 
express  and  impose  humility. 
170 


THE  NIGHT  CALL 

Young  Dr.  Carmichael,  Calvinton  said,  had 
been  spoiled  by  his  life  in  New  York.  It  had 
made  him  too  gay,  light-hearted,  almost  frivolous. 
It  was  possible  that  he  might  know  a  good  deal 
about  medicine,  though  doubtless  that  had  been 
exaggerated;  but  it  was  certain  that  his  tempera 
ment  needed  chastening  before  he  could  win  the 
kind  of  confidence  that  Calvinton  had  given  to  the 
venerable  Dr.  Coffin,  whose  face  was  like  a  monu 
ment,  and  whose  practice  rested  upon  the  two  pillars 
of  podophyllin  and  predestination. 

So  Carmichael  still  felt,  after  his  five  years'  work, 
that  he  was  an  outsider;  felt  it  rather  more  indeed 
than  when  he  had  first  come.  He  had  enough  prac 
tice  to  keep  him  in  good  health  and  spirits.  But 
his  patients  were  along  the  side  streets  and  in  the 
smaller  houses  and  out  in  the  country.  He  was  not 
called,  except  in  a  chance  emergency,  to  the  big 
houses  with  the  white  pillars.  The  inner  circle  had 
not  yet  taken  him  in. 

He  wondered  how  long  he  would  have  to  work 
and  wait  for  that.  He  knew  that  things  in  Calvin 
ton  moved  slowly;  but  he  knew  also  that  its  silent 
171 


THE  NIGHT  CALL 

and  subconscious  judgments  sometimes  crystallised 
with  incredible  rapidity  and  hardness.  Was  it  pos 
sible  that  he  was  already  classified  in  the  group  that 
came  near  but  did  not  enter,  an  inhabitant  but  not 
a  real  burgher,  a  half-way  citizen  and  a  lifelong  new 
comer?  That  would  be  rough;  he  would  not  like 
growing  old  in  that  way. 

But  perhaps  there  was  no  such  invisible  barrier 
hemming  in  his  path.  Perhaps  it  was  only  the 
naturally  slow  movement  of  things  that  hindered 
him.  Some  day  the  gate  would  open.  He  would 
be  called  in  behind  those  white  pillars  into  the 
world  of  which  his  father  had  often  told  him  stories 
and  traditions.  There  he  would  prove  his  skill  and 
his  worth.  He  would  make  himself  useful  and 
trusted  by  his  work.  Then  he  could  marry  the  girl 
he  loved,  and  win  a  firm  place  and  a  real  home  in 
the  old  town  whose  strange  charm  held  him  so 
strongly  even  in  the  vague  sadness  of  this  autum 
nal  night. 

He  turned  again  from  these  musings  to  his  Balzac, 
and  read  the  wonderful  pages  in  which  Benassis  tells 
the  story  of  his  consecration  to  his  profession  and 
172 


THE  NIGHT  CALL 

Captain  Genestas  confides  the  little  Adrien  to  his 
care,  and  then  the  beautiful  letter  in  which  the  boy 
describes  the  country  doctor's  death  and  burial. 
The  simple  pathos  of  it  went  home  to  Carmichael's 
heart. 

"  It  is  a  fine  life,  after  all, "  said  he  to  himself,  as 
he  shut  the  book  at  midnight  and  laid  down  his  pipe. 
"  No  man  has  a  better  chance  than  a  doctor  to  come 
close  to  the  real  thing.  Human  nature  is  his  patient, 
and  each  case  is  a  symptom.  It's  worth  while  to 
work  for  the  sake  of  getting  nearer  to  the  reality  and 
doing  some  definite  good  by  the  way.  I'm  glad  that 
this  isn't  one  of  those  mystical  towns  where  Christian 
Science  and  Buddhism  and  all  sorts  of  vagaries  flour 
ish.  Calvinton  may  be  difficult,  but  it's  not  obscure. 
And  some  day  I'll  feel  its  pulse  and  get  at  the  heart 
of  it." 

The  silence  of  the  little  office  was  snapped  by  the 
nervous  clamour  of  the  electric  bell,  shrilling  with  a 
night  call. 


173 


THE  NIGHT  CALL 

II 

DR.  CARMICHAEL  turned  on  the  light  in  the  hall, 
and  opened  the  front  door.  A  tall,  dark  man  of 
military  aspect  loomed  out  of  the  mist,  and,  behind 
him,  at  the  curbstone,  the  outline  of  a  big  motorcar 
was  dimly  visible.  He  held  out  a  visiting-card  in 
scribed  "Baron  de  Mortemer, "  and  spoke  slowly  and 
courteously,  but  with  a  strong  nasal  accent  and  a 
tone  of  insistent  domination. 

"You  are  the  Dr.  Carmichael,  yes?  You  speak 
French — no?  It  is  a  pity.  There  is  need  of  you  at 
once — a  patient — it  is  very  pressing.  You  will  come 
with  me,  yes?" 

"But  I  do  not  know  you,  sir,"  said  the  doctor; 
"you  are " 

"  The  Baron  de  Mortemer, "  broke  in  the  stranger, 
pointing  to  the  card  as  if  it  answered  all  questions. 
"It  is  the  Baroness  who  is  very  suffering — I  pray 
you  to  come  without  delay. " 

" But  what  is  it?  "  asked  the  doctor.  "  What  shall 
I  bring  with  me?  My  instrument-case?" 

The  Baron  smiled  with  his  lips  and  frowned  with 
174 


THE  NIGHT  CALL 

his  eyes.  "Not  at  all,"  he  said,  "Madame  expects 
not  an  arrival — it  is  not  so  bad  as  that — but  she  has 
had  a  sudden  access  of  anguish — she  has  demanded 
you.  I  pray  you  to  come  at  the  instant.  Bring 
what  pleases  you,  what  you  think  best,  but  come!" 

The  man's  manner  was  not  agitated,  but  it  was 
strangely  urgent,  overpowering,  constraining;  his 
voice  was  like  a  pushing  hand.  Carmichael  threw 
on  his  coat  and  hat,  hastily  picked  up  his  medicine- 
satchel  and  a  portable  electric  battery,  and  followed 
the  Baron  to  the  motor. 

The  great  car  started  easily  and  rolled  softly  purr 
ing  down  the  deserted  street.  The  houses  were  all 
asleep,  and  the  college  buildings  dark  as  empty  fort 
resses.  The  moon-threaded  mist  clung  closely  to 
the  town  like  a  shroud  of  gauze,  not  concealing  the 
form  beneath,  but  making  its  immobility  more  mys 
terious.  The  trees  drooped  and  dripped  with  mois 
ture,  and  the  leaves  seemed  ready,  almost  longing, 
to  fall  at  a  touch.  It  was  one  of  those  nights  when 
the  solid  things  of  the  world,  the  houses  and  the  hills 
and  the  woods  and  the  very  earth  itself,  grow  unreal 
to  the  point  of  vanishing;  while  the  impalpable 
175 


THE  NIGHT  CALL 

things,  the  presences  of  life  and  death  which  travel 
on  the  unseen  air,  the  influences  of  the  far-off  starry 
lights,  the  silent  messages  and  presentiments  of 
darkness,  the  ebb  and  flow  of  vast  currents  of  secret 
existence  all  around  us,  seem  so  close  and  vivid 
that  they  absorb  and  overwhelm  us  with  their 
intense  reality. 

Through  this  realm  of  indistinguishable  verity 
and  illusion,  strangely  imposed  upon  the  familiar, 
homely  street  of  Calvinton,  the  machine  ran  smooth 
ly,  faintly  humming,  as  the  Frenchman  drove  it  with 
master-skill — itself  a  dream  of  embodied  power 
and  speed.  Gliding  by  the  last  cottages  of  Town's 
End  where  the  street  became  the  highroad,  the  car 
ran  swiftly  through  the  open  country  for  a  mile  until 
it  came  to  a  broad  entrance.  The  gate  was  broken 
from  the  leaning  posts  and  thrown  to  one  side. 
Here  the  machine  turned  in  and  laboured  up  a 
rough,  grass-grown  carriage-drive. 

Carmichael  knew  that  they  were  at  Castle  Gordon, 

one  of  the  "old  places"  of  Calvinton,  which  he  often 

passed  on  his  country  drives.     The  house  stood  well 

back  from  the  road,  on  a  slight  elevation,  looking 

176 


THE  NIGHT  CALL 

down  over  the  oval  field  that  was  once  a  lawn,  and 
the  scattered  elms  and  pines  and  Norway  firs  that 
did  their  best  to  preserve  the  memory  of  a  noble 
plantation.  The  building  was  colonial ;  heavy  stone 
walls  covered  with  yellow  stucco;  tall  white  wooden 
pillars  ranged  along  a  narrow  portico;  a  style  which 
seemed  to  assert  that  a  Greek  temple  was  good 
enough  for  the  residence  of  an  American  gentleman. 
But  the  clean  buff  and  white  of  the  house  had  long 
since  faded.  The  stucco  had  cracked,  and,  here  and 
there,  had  fallen  from  the  stones.  The  paint  on  the 
pillars  was  dingy,  peeling  in  round  blisters  and  nar 
row  strips  from  the  grey  wood  underneath.  The 
trees  were  ragged  and  untended,  the  grass  uncut, 
the  driveway  overgrown  with  weeds  and  gullied  by 
rains — the  whole  place  looked  forsaken.  Carmichael 
had  always  supposed  that  it  was  vacant.  But  he 
had  not  passed  that  way  for  nearly  a  month,  and, 
meantime,  it  might  have  been  reopened  and  tenanted. 

The  Baron  drove  the  car  around  to  the  back  of  the 
house  and  stopped  there. 

"Pardon,"  said  he,  "that  I  bring  you  not  to  the 
door  of  entrance;  but  this  is  the  more  convenient." 
177 


THE  NIGHT  CALL 

He  knocked  hurriedly  and  spoke  a  few  words  in 
French.  The  key  grated  in  the  lock  and  the  door 
creaked  open.  A  withered,  wiry  little  man,  dressed 
in  dark  grey,  stood  holding  a  lighted  candle,  which 
flickered  in  the  draught.  His  head  was  nearly  bald; 
his  sallow,  hairless  face  might  have  been  of  any  age 
from  twenty  to  a  hundred  years;  his  eyes  between 
their  narrow  red  lids  were  glittering  and  inscrutable 
as  those  of  a  snake.  As  he  bowed  and  grinned,  show 
ing  his  yellow,  broken  teeth,  Carmichael  thought 
that  he  had  never  seen  a  more  evil  face  or  one  more 
clearly  marked  with  the  sign  of  the  drug-fiend. 

"My  chauffeur,  Gaspard, "  said  the  Baron, 
"also  my  valet,  my  cook,  my  chambermaid,  my  man 
to  do  all,  what  you  call  factotum,  is  it  not?  But  he 
speaks  not  English,  so  pardon  me  once  more. " 

He  spoke  a  few  words  to  the  man,  who  shrugged 
his  shoulders  and  smiled  with  the  same  deferential 
grimace  while  his  unchanging  eyes  gleamed  through 
their  slits.  Carmichael  caught  only  the  word 
"Madame"  while  he  was  slipping  off  his  overcoat, 
and  understood  that  they  were  talking  of  his  pa 
tient. 

178 


THE  NIGHT  CALL 

"Come,"  said  the  Baron,  "he  says  that  it  goes 
better,  at  least  not  worse — that  is  always  something. 
Let  us  mount  at  the  instant. " 

The  hall  was  bare,  except  for  a  table  on  which  a 
kitchen  lamp  was  burning,  and  two  chairs  with 
heavy  automobile  coats  and  rugs  and  veils  thrown 
upon  them.  The  stairway  was  uncarpeted,  and  the 
dust  lay  thick  under  the  banisters.  At  the  door 
of  the  back  room  on  the  second  floor  the  Baron 
paused  and  knocked  softly.  A  low  voice  answered, 
and  he  went  in,  beckoning  the  doctor  to  follow. 


Ill 

IF  Carmichael  lived  to  be  a  hundred  he  could 
never  forget  that  first  impression.  The  room  was  but 
partly  furnished,  yet  it  gave  at  once  the  idea  that  it 
was  inhabited;  it  was  even,  in  some  strange  way, 
rich  and  splendid.  Candles  on  the  mantelpiece 
and  a  silver  travelling-lamp  on  the  dressing-table 
threw  a  soft  light  on  little  articles  of  luxury,  and 
photographs  in  jewelled  frames,  and  a  couple  of  well- 
bound  books,  and  a  gilt  clock  marking  the  half-hour 
179 


THE  NIGHT  CALL 

after  midnight.  A  wood  fire  burned  in  the  wide 
chimney-place,  and  before  it  'a  rug  was  spread.  At 
one  side  there  was  a  huge  mahogany  four-post  bed 
stead,  and  there,  propped  up  by  the  pillows,  lay  the 
noblest-looking  woman  that  Carmichael  had  ever 
seen. 

She  was  dressed  in  some  clinging  stuff  of  soft  black, 
with  a  diamond  at  her  breast,  and  a  deep-red  cloak 
thrown  over  her  feet.  She  must  have  been  past  mid 
dle  age,  for  her  thick,  brown  hair  was  already  touched 
with  silver,  and  one  lock  of  snow-white  lay  above  her 
forehead.  But  her  face  was  one  of  those  which  time 
enriches;  fearless  and  tender  and  high-spirited,  a 
speaking  face  in  which  the  dark-lashed  grey  eyes  were 
like  words  of  wonder  and  the  sensitive  mouth  like  a 
clear  song.  She  looked  at  the  young  doctor  and  held 
out  her  hand  to  him. 

"I  am  glad  to  see  you,"  she  said,  in  her  low,  pure 
voice,  "very  glad!  You  are  Roger  Carmichael's 
son.  Oh,  I  am  glad  to  see  you  indeed. " 

"You  are  very  kind,"  he  answered,  "and  I  am 
glad  also  to  be  of  any  service  to  you,  though  I  do 
not  yet  know  who  you  are. " 
180 


THE  NIGHT  CALL 

The  Baron  was  bending  over  the  fire  rearranging 
the  logs  on  the  andirons.  He  looked  up  sharply  and 
spoke  in  his  strong  nasal  tone. 

"Pardon!  Madame  la  Baronne  de  Mortemer, 
j'ai  rhonneur  de  vous  presenter  Monsieur  le  Docteur 
Carmichael. " 

The  accent  on  the  "  doctor  "  was  marked.  A  slight 
shadow  came  upon  the  lady's  face.  She  answered, 
quietly : 

"Yes,  I  know.  The  doctor  has  come  to  see  me 
because  I  was  ill.  We  will  talk  of  that  in  a  moment. 
But  first  I  want  to  tell  him  who  I  am — and  by  an 
other  name.  Dr.  Carmichael,  did  your  father  ever 
speak  to  you  of  Jean  Gordon?  " 

"  Why,  yes, "  he  said,  after  an  instant  of  thought, 
"it  comes  back  to  me  now  quite  clearly.  She  was 
the  young  girl  to  whom  he  taught  Latin  when  he 
first  came  here  as  a  college  instructor.  He  was  very 
fond  of  her.  There  was  one  of  her  books  in  his  li 
brary — I  have  it  now — a  little  volume  of  Horace, 
with  a  few  translations  in  verse  written  on  the  fly 
leaves,  and  her  name  on  the  title-page — Jean  Gor 
don.  My  father  wrote  under  that,  '  My  best  pupil, 
181 


THE  NIGHT  CALL 

who  left  her  lessons  unfinished. '  He  was  very  fond 
of  the  book,  and  so  I  kept  it  when  he  died." 

The  lady's  eyes  grew  moist,  but  the  tears  did  not 
fall.  They  trembled  in  her  voice. 

"I  was  that  Jean  Gordon — a  girl  of  fifteen — your 
father  was  the  best  man  I  ever  knew.  You  look 
like  him,  but  he  was  handsomer  than  you.  Ah,  no, 
I  was  not  his  best  pupil,  but  his  most  wilful  and  un 
grateful  one.  Did  he  never  tell  you  of  my  running 
away — of  the  unjust  suspicions  that  fell  on  him — 
of  his  voyage  to  Europe?" 

"•Never, "  answered  Carmichael.  "He  only  spoke, 
as  I  remember,  of  your  beauty  and  your  brightness, 
and  of  the  good  times  that  you  all  had  when  this 
old  house  was  in  its  prime." 

"Yes,  yes,"  she  said,  quickly  and  with  strong  feel 
ing,  "they  were  good  times,  and  he  was  a  man  of 
honour.  He  never  took  an  unfair  advantage,  never 
boasted  of  a  woman's  favour,  never  tried  to  spare 
himself.  He  was  an  American  man.  I  hope  you 
are  like  him." 

The  Baron,  who  had  been  leaning  on  the  mantel, 
crossed  the  room  impatiently  and  stood  beside  the 
182 


THE  NIGHT  CALL 

bed.  He  spoke  in  French  again,  dragging  the 
words  in  his  insistent,  masterful  voice,  as  if  they 
were  something  heavy  which  he  laid  upon  his 
wife. 

Her  grey  eyes  grew  darker,  almost  black,  with  en 
larging  pupils.  She  raised  herself  on  the  pillows  as 
if  about  to  get  up.  Then  she  sank  back  again  and 
said,  with  an  evident  effort : 

"Rene,  I  must  beg  you  not  to  speak  in  French 
again.  The  doctor  does  not  understand  it.  We 
must  be  more  courteous.  And  now  I  will  tell  him 
about  my  sudden  illness  to-night.  It  was  the  first 
time — like  a  flash  of  lightning — an  ice-cold  hand  of 
pain — 

Even  as  she  spoke  a  swift  and  dreadful  change 
passed  over  her  face.  Her  colour  vanished  in  a  mor 
bid  pallor;  a  cold  sweat  lay  like  death-dew  on  her 
forehead;  her  eyes  were  fixed  on  some  impending 
horror;  her  lips,  blue  and  rigid,  were  strained  with 
an  unspeakable,  intolerable  anguish.  Her  left  arm 
stiffened  as  if  it  were  gripped  in  a  vise  of  pain.  Her 
right  hand  fluttered  over  her  heart,  plucking  at  an 
unseen  weight.  It  seemed  as  if  an  invisible,  silent 
183 


THE  NIGHT  CALL 

death-wind  were  quenching  the  flame  of  her  life.     It 
flickered  in  an  agony  of  strangulation. 

"  Be  quick, "  cried  the  doctor;  "  lay  her  head  lower 
on  the  pillows,  loosen  her  dress,  warm  her  hands. " 

He  had  caught  up  his  satchel,  and  was  looking  for 
a  little  vial.  He  found  it  almost  empty.  But  there 
were  four  or  five  drops  of  the  yellowish,  oily  liquid. 
He  poured  them  on  his  handkerchief  and  held  it 
close  to  the  lady's  mouth.  She  was  still  breathing 
regularly  though  slowly,  and  as  she  inhaled  the 
pungent,  fruity  smell,  like  the  odour  of  a  jargonelle 
pear,  a  look  of  relief  flowed  over  her  face,  her  breath 
ing  deepened,  her  arm  and  her  lips  relaxed,  the  terror 
faded  from  her  eyes. 

He  went  to  his  satchel  again  and  took  out  a  bottle 
of  white  tablets  marked  "  Nitroglycerin. "  He  gave 
her  one  of  them,  and  when  he  saw  her  look  of  peace 
grow  steadier,  after  a  minute,  he  prepared  the  electric 
battery.  Softly  he  passed  the  sponges  charged  with 
their  mysterious  current  over  her  temples  and  her 
neck  and  down  her  slender  arms  and  blue-veined 
wrists,  holding  them  for  a  while  in  the  palms  of  her 
hands,  which  grew  rosy. 

184 


In  all  this  the  Baron  had  helped  as  he  could,  and 
watched  closely,  but  without  a  word.  He  was  cer 
tainly  not  indifferent;  neither  was  he  distressed;  the 
expression  of  his  black  eyes  and  heavy,  passionless 
face  was  that  of  presence  of  mind,  self-control  cover 
ing  an  intense  curiosity.  Carmichael  conceived  a 
vague  sentiment  of  dislike  for  the  man. 

When  the  patient  rested  easily  they  stepped  out 
side  the  room  together  for  a  moment. 

"It  is  the  angina,  I  suppose,"  droned  the  Baron, 
"hein?  That  is  of  great  inconvenience.  But  I  think 
it  is  the  false  one,  that  is  much  less  grave — not  truly 
dangerous,  hein?" 

"My  dear  sir,"  answered  Carmichael,  "who  can 
tell  the  difference  between  a  false  and  a  true  angina 
pectoris,  except  by  a  post-mortem?  The  symptoms 
are  much  alike,  the  result  is  sometimes  identical,  if 
the  paroxysm  is  severe  enough.  But  in  this  case  I 
hope  that  you  may  be  right.  Your  wife's  illness 
is  severe,  dangerous,  but  not  necessarily  fatal.  This 
attack  has  passed  and  may  not  recur  for  months 
or  even  years." 

The  lip-smile  came  back  under  the  Baron's  sullen 
eyes. 

185 


THE  NIGHT  CALL 

"Those  are  the  good  news,  my  dear  doctor," 
said  he,  slowly.  "Then  we  shall  be  able  to  travel 
soon,  perhaps  to-morrow  or  the  next  day.  It  is  of 
an  extreme  importance.  This  place  is  insufferable 
to  me.  We  have  engagements  in  Washington — a 
gay  season." 

Carmichael  looked  at  him  steadily  and  spoke  with 
deliberation. 

"Baron,  you  must  understand  me  clearly.  This 
is  a  serious  case.  If  I  had  not  come  in  time  your 
wife  might  be  dead  now.  She  cannot  possibly  be 
moved  for  a  week,  perhaps  it  may  take  a  month 
fully  to  restore  her  strength.  After  that  she  must 
have  a  winter  of  absolute  quiet  and  repose." 

The  Frenchman's  face  hardened;  his  brows  drew 
together  in  a  black  line,  and  he  lifted  his  hand  quickly 
with  a  gesture  of  irritation.  Then  he  bowed. 

"As  you  will,  doctor!  And  for  the  present  mo 
ment,  what  is  it  that  I  may  have  the  honour  to  do 
for  your  patient?" 

"Just  now,"  said  the  doctor,  "she  needs  a  stimu 
lant — a  glass  of  sherry  or  of  brandy,  if  you  have 
it — and  a  hot- water  bag — you  have  none?  Well, 
then,  a  couple  of  bottles  filled  with  hot  water  and 
186 


THE  NIGHT  CALL 

wrapped  in  a  cloth  to  put  at  her  feet.  Can  you  get 
them?" 

The  Baron  bowed  again,  and  went  down  the  stairs. 
As  Carmichael  returned  to  the  bedroom  he  heard  the 
droning,  insistent  voice  below  calling  "Gaspard, 
Gaspard!" 

The  great  grey  eyes  were  open  as  he  entered  the 
room,  and  there  was  a  sense  of  release  from  pain  and 
fear  in  them  that  was  like  the  deepest  kind  of  pleas 
ure. 

"Yes,  I  am  much  better,"  said  she;  "the  attack 
has  passed.  Will  it  come  again?  No?  Not  soon, 
you  mean.  Well,  that  is  good.  You  need  not  tell 
me  what  it  is — time  enough  for  that  to-morrow. 
But  come  and  sit  by  me.  I  want  to  talk  to  you. 
Your  first  name  is " 

"Leroy, "  he  answered.  "But  you  are  weak; 
you  must  not  talk  much. " 

"Only  a  little,"  she  replied,  smiling;  "it  does  me 
good.  Leroy  was  your  mother's  name — yes?  It  is 
not  a  Calvinton  name.  I  wonder  where  your  father 
met  her.  Perhaps  in  France  when  he  came  to  look 
for  me.  But  he  did  not  find  me — no,  indeed — I 
187 


THE  NIGHT  CALL 

was  well  hidden  then — but  he  found  your  mother. 
You  are  young  enough  to  be  my  son.  Will  you  be 
a  friend  to  me  for  your  father's  sake?" 

She  spoke  gently,  in  a  tone  of  infinite  kindness  and 
tender  grace,  with  pauses  in  which  a  hundred  un 
spoken  recollections  and  appeals  were  suggested. 
The  young  man  was  deeply  moved.  He  took  her 
hand  in  his  firm  clasp. 

"Gladly,"  he  said,  "and  for  your  sake  too.  But 
now  I  want  you  to  rest. " 

"Oh,"  she  answered,  "I  am  resting  now.  But 
let  me  talk  a  little  more.  It  will  not  harm  me.  I 
have  been  through  so  much!  Twice  married — a 
great  fortune  to  spend — all  that  the  big  world  can 
give.  But  now  I  am  very  tired  of  the  whirl.  There 
is  only  one  thing  I  want — to  stay  here  in  Calvinton. 
I  rebelled  against  it  once;  but  it  draws  me  back. 
There  is  a  strange  magic  in  the  place.  Haven't  you 
felt  it?  How  do  you  explain  it?" 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  have  felt  it  surely,  but  I  can't 
explain  it,  unless  it  is  a  kind  of  ancient  peace  that 
makes  you  wish  to  be  at  home  here  even  while  you 
rebel." 

188 


THE  NIGHT  CALL 

She  nodded  her  head  and  smiled  softly. 

"That  is  it,"  she  said,  hesitating  for  a  moment. 
"But  my  husband — you  see  he  is  a  very  strong  man, 
and  he  loves  the  world,  the  whirling  life — he  took  a 
dislike  to  this  place  at  once.  No  wonder,  with  the 
house  in  such  a  state!  But  I  have  plenty  of  money 
• — it  will  be  easy  to  restore  the  house.  Only,  some 
times  I  think  he  cares  more  for  the  money  than — • 
but  no  matter  what  I  think.  He  wishes  to  go  on  at 
once — to-morrow,  if  we  can.  I  hate  the  thought  of 
it.  Is  it  possible  for  me  to  stay?  Can  you  help  me?" 

"Dear  lady,"  he  answered,  lifting  her  hand  to  his 
lips,  "set  your  mind  at  rest.  I  have  already  told 
him  that  it  is  impossible  for  you  to  go  for  many 
days.  You  can  arrange  to  move  to  the  inn  to 
morrow,  and  stay  there  while  you  direct  the  put 
ting  of  your  house  in  order." 

A  sound  in  the  hallway  announced  the  return  of 
the  Baron  and  Gaspard  with  the  hot-water  bottles 
and  the  cognac.  The  doctor  made  his  patient  as 
comfortable  as  possible  for  the  night,  prepared  a 
sleeping-draught,  and  gave  directions  for  the  use  of 
the  tablets  in  an  emergency. 
189 


THE  NIGHT  CALL 

"Good  night,"  he  said,  bending  over  her.  "I  will 
see  you  in  the  morning.  You  may  count  upon  me. " 

"I  do,"  she  said,  with  her  eyes  resting  on  his; 
"thank  you  for  all.  I  shall  expect  you — au  re- 
voir. " 

As  they  went  down  the  stairs  he  said  to  the 
Baron,  "Remember,  absolute  repose  is  necessary. 
With  that  you  are  safe  enough  for  to-night.  But 
you  may  possibly  need  more  of  the  nitrite  of  amyl. 
My  vial  is  empty.  I  will  write  the  prescription,  if 
you  will  allow  me." 

"In  the  dining-room,"  said  the  Baron,  taking  up 
the  lamp  and  throwing  open  the  door  of  the  back 
room  on  the  right.  The  floor  had  been  hastily  swept 
and  the  rubbish  shoved  into  the  fireplace.  The 
heavy  chairs  stood  along  the  wall.  But  two  of  them 
were  drawn  up  at  the  head  of  the  long  mahogany 
table,  and  dishes  and  table  utensils  from  a  travelling- 
basket  were  lying  there,  as  if  a  late  supper  had  been 
served. 

"You  see,"  said  the  Baron,  drawling,  "our  ban 
quet-hall!  Madame  and  I  have  dined  in  this  splen 
dour  to-night.  Is  it  possible  that  you  write  here?" 
190 


THE  NIGHT  CALL 

His  secret  irritation,  his  insolence,  his  contempt 
spoke  clearly  enough  in  his  tone.  The  remark  was 
almost  like  an  intentional  insult.  For  a  second  Car- 
michael  hesitated.  "No, "  he  thought,  "why  should 
I  quarrel  with  him?  He  is  only  sullen.  He  can  do 
no  harm." 

He  pulled  a  chair  to  the  foot  of  the  table,  took 
out  his  tablet  and  his  fountain-pen,  and  wrote  the 
prescription.  Tearing  off  the  leaf,  he  folded  it 
crosswise  and  left  it  on  the  table. 

In  the  hall,  as  he  put  on  his  coat  he  remembered 
the  paper. 

"My  prescription,"  he  said,  "I  must  take  it  to 
the  druggist  to-night." 

"Permit  me,"  said  the  Baron,  "the  room  is  dark. 
I  will  take  the  paper,  and  procure  the  drug  as  I  re 
turn  from  escorting  the  doctor  to  his  residence." 

He  went  into  the  dark  room,  groped  about  for 
a  moment,  and  returned,  closing  the  door  behind 
him. 

"Come,  Monsieur,"  he  said,  "your  work  at  the 
Chateau  Gordon  is  finished  for  this  night.  I  shall 
leave  you  with  yourself — at  home,  as  you  say — in  a 
191 


THE  NIGHT  CALL 

few  moments.  Gaspard — Gaspard,  fermez  la  porte 
a  del" 

The  strong  nasal  voice  echoed  through  the  house, 
and  the  servant  ran  lightly  down  the  stairs.  His 
master  muttered  a  few  sentences  to  him,  holding  up 
his  right  hand  as  he  did  so,  with  the  five  fingers 
extended,  as  if  to  impress  something  on  the  man's 
mind. 

"Pardon,"  he  said,  turning  to  Carmichael,  "that 
I  speak  always  French,  after  the  rebuke.  But  this 
time  it  is  of  necessity.  I  repeat  the  instruction  for 
the  pillules.  One  at  each  hour  until  eight  o'clock — • 
five,  not  more — it  is  correct?  Come,  then,  our 
equipage  is  always  harnessed,  always  ready,  how 
convenient!" 

The  two  men  did  not  speak  as  the  car  rolled 
through  the  brumous  night.  A  rising  wind  was 
sifting  the  fog.  The  moon  had  set.  The  loosened 
leaves  came  whirling,  fluttering,  sinking  through  the 
darkness  like  a  flight  of  huge  dying  moths.  Now 
and  then  they  brushed  the  faces  of  the  travellers 
with  limp,  moist  wings. 

The  red  night-lamp  in  the  drug-store  was  still 
192 


THE  NIGHT  CALL 

burning.  Carmichael  called  the  other's  attention 
to  it. 

"You  have  the  prescription?" 

"Without  doubt!"  he  answered.  "After  I  have 
escorted  you,  I  shall  procure  the  drug. " 

The  doctor's  front  door  was  lit  up  as  he  had  left  it. 
The  light  streamed  out  rather  brightly  and  illumined 
the  Baron's  sullen  black  eyes  and  smiling  lips  as  he 
leaned  from  the  car,  lifting  his  cap. 

"A  thousand  thanks,  my  dear  doctor,  you  have 
been  excessively  kind;  yes,  truly  of  an  excessive 
goodness  for  us.  It  is  a  great  pleasure — how  do  you 
tell  it  in  English? — it  is  a  great  pleasure  to  have  met 
you.  Adieu. " 

"Till  to-morrow  morning!"  said  Carmichael, 
cheerfully,  waving  his  hand. 

The  Baron  stared  at  him  curiously,  and  lifted  his 
cap  again. 

"Adieu!"  droned  the  insistent  voice,  and  the  great 
car  slid  into  the  dark. 


193 


THE  NIGHT  CALL 


THE  next  morning  was  of  crystal.  It  was  after 
nine  when  Carmichael  drove  his  electric-phaeton 
down  the  leaf-littered  street,  where  the  country 
wagons  and  the  decrepit  hacks  were  already  mean 
dering  placidly,  and  out  along  the  highroad,  be 
tween  the  still  green  fields.  It  seemed  to  him  as 
if  the  experience  of  the  past  night  were  "such  stuff 
as  dreams  are  made  of."  Yet  the  impression  of 
what  he  had  seen  and  heard  in  that  firelit  cham 
ber — of  the  eyes,  the  voice,  the  hand  of  that 
strangely  lovely  lady — of  her  vision  of  sudden 
death,  her  essentially  lonely  struggle  with  it,  her 
touching  words  to  him  when  she  came  back  to  life — 
all  this  was  so  vivid  and  unforgetable  that  he  drove 
straight  to  Castle  Gordon. 

The  great  house  was  shut  up  like  a  tomb:  every 
door  and  window  was  closed,  except  where  half  of 
one  of  the  shutters  had  broken  loose  and  hung  by  a 
single  hinge.  He  drove  around  to  the  back.  It  was 
the  same  there.  A  cobweb  was  spun  across  the 
lower  corner  of  the  door  and  tiny  drops  of  moisture 
194 


THE  NIGHT  CALL 

jewelled  it.  Perhaps  it  had  been  made  in  the  early 
morning.  If  so,  no  one  had  come  out  of  the  door 
since  night. 

Carmichael  knocked,  and  knocked  again.  No 
answer.  He  called.  No  reply.  Then  he  drove 
around  to  the  portico  with  the  tall  white  pillars  and 
tried  the  front  door.  It  was  locked.  He  peered 
through  .  the  half -open  window  into  the  drawing- 
room.  The  glass  was  crusted  with  dirt  and  the  room 
was  dark.  He  was  trying  to  make  out  the  outlines 
of  the  huddled  furniture  when  he  heard  a  step  be 
hind  him.  It  was  the  old  farmer  from  the  nearest 
cottage  on  the  road. 

"Mornin',  doctor!  I  seen  ye  comin'  in,  and  tho't 
ye  might  want  to  see  the  house. " 

"Good  morning,  Scudder!  I  do,  if  you'll  let  me 
in.  But  first  tell  me  about  these  automobile  tracks 
in  the  drive." 

The  old  man  gazed  at  him  with  a  kind  of  dull  sur 
prise  as  if  the  question  were  foolish. 

"Why,  ye  made  'em  yerself,  comin'  up,  didn't  ye?" 

"I  mean  those  larger  tracks — they  were  made  by 
a  much  heavier  car  than  mine. " 
195 


THE  NIGHT  CALL 

"Oh, "  said  the  old  man,  nodding,  "them  was  made 
by  a  big  machine  that  come  in  here  las'  week.  You 
see  this  house  's  bin  shet  up  'bout  ten  years,  ever 
sence  ol'  Jedge  Gordon  died.  B 'longs  to  Miss 
Jean — her  that  run  off  with  the  Eye-talyin.  She 
kinder  wants  to  sell  it,  and  kinder  not — ye  see — 

"Yes,"  interrupted  Carmichael,  "but  about  that 
big  machine — when  did  you  say  it  was  here?" 

"P'raps  four  or  five  days  ago;  I  think  it  was  a 
We'nsday.  Two  fellers  from  Philadelfy — said  they 
wanted  to  look  at  the  house,  tho't  of  buyin'  it.  So 
I  bro't  'em  in,  but  when  they  seen  the  outside  of  it 
they  said  they  didn't  want  to  look  at  it  no  more — 
too  big  and  too  crumbly!" 

"And  since  then  no  one  has  been  here?" 

"Not  a  soul — leastways  nobody  that  I  seen.  I 
don't  s'pose  you  think  o'  buyin'  the  house,  doc'! 
It's  too  lonely  for  an  office,  ain't  it?" 

"You're  right,  Scudder,  much  too  lonely.  But 
I'd  like  to  look  through  the  old  place,  if  you  will 
take  me  in. " 

The  hall,  with  the  two  chairs  and  the  table,  on 
which  a  kitchen  lamp  with  a  half-inch  of  oil  in  it  was 
196 


THE    NIGHT    CALL 

standing,  gave  no  sign  of  recent  habitation.  Car- 
michael  glanced  around  him  and  hurried  up  the 
stairway  to  the  bedroom.  A  tall  four-poster 
stood  in  one  corner,  with  a  coverlet  apparently 
hiding  a  mattress  and  some  pillows.  A  dressing- 
table  stood  against  the  wall,  and  in  the  middle  of 
the  floor  there  were  a  few  chairs.  A  half-open 
closet  door  showed  a  pile  of  yellow  linen.  The 
daylight  sifted  dimly  into  the  room  through  the 
cracks  of  the  shutters. 

"Scudder,"  said  Carmichael,  "I  want  you  to  look 
around  carefully  and  tell  me  whether  you  see  any 
signs  of  any  one  having  been  here  lately. " 

The  old  man  stared,  and  turned  his  eyes  slowly 
about  the  room.  Then  he  shook  his  head. 

"  Can't  say  as  I  do.  Looks  pretty  much  as  it  did 
when  me  and  my  wife  breshed  it  up  in  October.  Ye 
see  it's  kinder  clean  fer  an  old  house — not  much 
dust  from  the  road  here.  That  linen  and  that  bed's 
bin  here  sence  I  c'n  remember.  Them  burnt  logs 
mus'  be  left  over  from  old  Jedge  Gordon's  time. 
He  died  in  here.  But  what's  the  matter,  doc'? 

Ye  think  tramps  or  burglers " 

197 


THE    NIGHT    CALL 

"No,"  said  Carmichael,  "but  what  would  you 
say  if  I  told  you  that  I  was  called  here  last  night 
to  see  a  patient,  and  that  the  patient  was  the  Miss 
Jean  Gordon  of  whom  you  have  just  told  me?" 

"What  d'ye  mean?"  said  the  old  man,  gaping. 
Then  he  gazed  at  the  doctor  pityingly,  and  shook  his 
head.  "I  know  ye  ain't  a  drinkin'  man,  doc',  so  I 
wouldn't  say  nothin'.  But  I  guess  ye  bin  dreamin'. 
Why,  las'  time  Miss  Jean  writ  to  me — her  name's 
Mortimer  now,  and  her  husband's  a  kinder  Barrin 
or  some  sorter  furrin  noble, — she  was  in  Paris,  not 
mor'n  two  weeks  ago!  Said  she  was  dyin'  to  come 
back  to  the  oF  place  agin,  but  she  wa'n't  none  too 
well,  and  didn't  guess  she  c'd  manage  it.  Ef  ye  said 
ye  seen  her  here  las'  night — why — well,  I'd  jest  think 
ye'd  bin  dreamin'.  P'raps  ye're  a  little  under  the 
weather — bin  workin'  too  hard?" 

"I  never  was  better,  Scudder,  but  sometimes 
curious  notions  come  to  me.  I  wanted  to  see  how 
you  would  take  this  one.  Now  we'll  go  downstairs 
again. " 

The  old  man  laughed,  but  doubtfully,  as  if  he  was 
still  puzzled  by  the  talk,  and  they  descended  the 
198 


THE    NIGHT    CALL 

creaking,  dusty  stairs.  Carmichael  turned  at  once 
into  the  dining-room. 

The  rubbish  was  still  in  the  fireplace,  the  chairs 
ranged  along  the  wall.  There  were  no  dishes  on  the 
long  table;  but  at  the  head  of  it  two  chairs;  and  at 
the  foot,  one;  and  in  front  of  that,  lying  on  the  table, 
a  folded  bit  of  paper.  Carmichael  picked  it  up  and 
opened  it. 

It  was  his  prescription  for  the  nitrite  of  amyl. 

He  hesitated  a  moment;  then  refolded  the  paper 
and  put  it  in  his  vest-pocket. 

Seated  in  his  car,  with  his  hand  on  the  lever,  he 
turned  to  Scudder,  who  was  watching  him  with 
curious  eyes. 

"I'm  very  much  obliged  to  you,  Scudder,  for 
taking  me  through  the  house.  And  I'll  be  more 
obliged  to  you  if  you'll  just  keep  it  to  yourself — 
what  I  said  to  you  about  last  night. " 

"Sure,"  said  the  old  man,  nodding  gravely.  "I 
like  ye,  doc',  and  that  kinder  talk  might  do  ye  harm 
here  in  Calvinton.  We  don't  hold  much  to  dreams 
and  visions  down  this  way.  But,  say,  'twas  a  mighty 
interestin'  dream,  wa'n't  it?  I  guess  Miss  Jean 
199 


THE  NIGHT  CALL 

hones  for  them  white  pillars,  many  a  day — they 
sorter  stand  for  old  times.  They  draw  ye,  don't 
they?" 

"Yes,  my  friend,"  said  Carmichael  as  he  moved 
the  lever,  "  they  speak  of  the  past.  There  is  a  magic 
in  those  white  pillars.  They  draw  you." 


200 


THE  EFFECTUAL  FERVENT 
PRAYER 


THE  EFFECTUAL  FERVENT  PRAYER 

O-O-O!  Danny,  oho-o-o!  five  o'clock!" 
The  clear  young  voice  of  Esther  North  floated 
across  the  snowy  fields  to  the  hill  where  the  children 
of  Glendour  were  coasting.  Her  brother  Daniel, 
plodding  up  the  trampled  path  beside  the  glairy  track 
with  half  a  dozen  other  boys,  dragging  the  bob-sled 
on  which  his  little  sister  Ruth  was  seated,  heard  the 
call  with  vague  sentiments  of  dislike  and  rebellion. 
His  twelve  years  rose  up  in  arms  against  being  or 
dered  by  a  girl,  even  if  she  was  sixteen  and  had 
begun  to  put  up  her  hair  and  lengthen  her  skirts. 
She  was  a  nice  girl,  to  be  sure — the  prettiest  in  Glen- 
dour.  But  she  might  have  had  more  sense  than  to 
call  out  that  way  before  all  the  crowd.  He  had  a 
good  mind  to  pretend  not  to  hear  her. 

But  his  comrades  were  not  so  minded.     They  had 

no  idea  of  letting  him  evade  the  situation.     They 

wanted  him  to  stay,  but  he  must  do  it  like  a  man. 

"Listen  at  your  nurse  already?"  said  one  of  the 

203 


EFFECTUAL  FERVENT  PRAYER 

older  lads  mockingly;  "she's  a-callin'  you.  Run 
along  home,  boy!" 

"Aw,  no!"  pleaded  a  youngster,  not  yet  master 
of  the  art  of  irony.  "Don't  you  mind  her,  Dan! 
The  coast  is  just  gettin'  like  glass,  and  you're  the 
onliest  one  to  steer  the  bob.  You  stay!" 

"Please,  Danny,"  said  Ruth,  keeping  her  seat  as 
the  sled  stopped  at  the  top  of  the  hill,  "only  once 
more  down!  I  ain't  a  bit  tired." 

" Dannee-ee-ee !  O  Danny!"  came  the  sweet  vi 
brant  call  again.  "Five  o'clock — come  on — re 
member!" 

Daniel  remembered.  The  rules  of  the  Rev. 
Nathaniel  North's  house  were  like  the  law  of  the 
Medes  and  Persians.  Daniel  had  never  met  a  Mede 
or  a  Persian,  but  in  his  mind  he  pictured  them  as 
persons  with  reddish-gray  hair  and  beards  and 
smooth-shaven  upper  lips,  wearing  white  neckcloths 
and  long  black  broadcloth  coats,  and  requiring  ab 
solute  punctuality  at  meal  time,  church  time,  school 
time,  and  family  prayers.  Esther's  voice  recalled 
him  from  the  romance  of  the  coasting-hill  to  the 
reality  of  life.  He  considered  the  consequences  of 
204 


EFFECTUAL  FERVENT  PRAYER 

being  late  for  Saturday  evening  worship  and  made 
up  his  mind  that  they  were  too  much  for  him. 

"Come  on,  Ruthie,"  he  cried,  picking  up  the  cord 
of  her  small  sled,  which  she  had  forsaken  for  the 
greater  glory  and  excitement  of  riding  behind  her 
brother  on  the  bob.  The  child  put  her  hand  in 
his,  and  they  ran  together  over  the  creaking  snow  to 
the  place  where  their  older  sister  was  waiting,  her 
slender  figure  in  blue  jacket  and  skirt  outlined 
against  the  white  field,  and  her  golden  hair  shining 
like  an  aureole  around  her  rosy  face  in  the  intense 
bloom  of  the  winter  sunset. 

The  three  young  Norths  were  the  flower  of  Glen- 
dour:  a  Scotch  village  in  western  Pennsylvania, 
where  the  spirits  of  John  Knox  and  Robert  Burns 
lived  face  to  face,  separated  by  a  great  gulf.  On 
one  side  of  the  street,  near  the  river,  was  the  tav 
ern,  where  the  lights  burned  late,  and  the  music 
went  to  the  tune  of  "Wandering  Willie"  and  "John 
Barleycorn."  On  the  other  side  of  the  street,  toward 
the  hills,  was  the  Presbyterian  church,  where  the  ser 
mons  were  an  hour  long,  and  the  favourite  lyric  was 

"A  charge  to  keep  I  have." 
205 


EFFECTUAL  FERVENT  PRAYER 

The  Rev.  Nathaniel  North's  "charge  to  keep" 
was  the  spiritual  welfare  of  the  elect,  and  especially 
of  his  own  motherless  children.  To  guide  them  in 
the  narrow  way,  unspotted  from  the  world,  to  train 
them  up  in  the  faith  once  delivered  to  the  saints 
and  in  the  customs  which  that  faith  had  developed 
among  the  Scotch  Covenanters,  was  the  great  de 
sire  of  his  heart.  For  that  desire  he  would  gladly 
have  suffered  martyrdom;  and  into  the  fulfilling  of 
his  task  he  threw  a  strenuous  tenderness,  a  strong, 
unfaltering,  sincere  affection  that  bound  his  children 
to  him  by  a  love  which  lay  far  deeper  than  all  their 
outward  symptoms  of  restiveness  under  his  strict 
rule. 

This  is  a  thing  that  seldom  gets  into  stories. 
People  of  the  world  do  not  understand  it.  They  are 
strangers  to  the  intensity  of  religious  passion,  and 
to  the  swift  instinct  by  which  the  heart  of  a  child 
surrenders  to  absolute  sincerity.  This  was  what  the 
North  children  felt  in  their  father — a  devotion  that 
was  grave,  stern,  almost  fierce  in  its  single-hearted 
attachment  to  them.  He  was  theirs  altogether.  He 
would  not  let  them  dance  or  play  cards.  The  thea- 
206 


EFFECTUAL  FERVENT  PRAYER 

tre  and  even  the  circus  were  tabooed  to  them.  Novel- 
reading  was  discouraged  and  no  books  were  admitted 
to  the  house  which  had  not  passed  under  his  censor 
ship.  All  this  seemed  strange  to  them;  they  could 
not  comprehend  it;  at  times  they  talked  together 
about  the  hardship  of  it — the  two  older  ones — and 
made  little  plots  to  relax  or  circumvent  the  paternal 
rule.  But  in  their  hearts  they  accepted  it,  because 
they  knew  their  father  loved  them  better  than 
any  one  else  in  the  world,  and  they  trusted  him  be 
cause  they  felt  that  he  was  a  true  man  and  a  good 
man. 

You  see  they  were  not  "children  in  fiction";  they 
were  real  children — and  beautiful,  high-spirited 
children  too.  Esther  was  easily  the  "fairest  of  the 
village  maids,"  and  the  head  of  her  class  in  the  high- 
school;  Daniel,  a  leader  in  games  among  the  boys 
of  his  age;  even  eight-year-old  Ruth  with  her  fly 
away  red  hair  and  her  wide  brown  eyes  had  her 
devoted  admirers  among  the  younger  lads.  It  was 
evident  to  the  Rev.  Nathaniel  North  that  his  chil 
dren  were  destined  to  have  the  perilous  gift  of 
popularity,  and  with  all  his  natural  pride  in  them 
207 


EFFECTUAL  FERVENT  PRAYER 

he  was  tormented  with  anxiety  on  their  account. 
How  to  protect  them  from  temptation,  how  to 
shield  them  from  the  vain  allurements  of  wealth 
and  folly  and  fashion,  how  to  surround  them  with 
an  atmosphere  altogether  serious  and  devout  and 
pure,  how  to  keep  them  out  of  reach  of  the  evil 
that  is  in  the  world — that  was  the  tremendous 
problem  upon  which  his  mind  and  his  heart  laboured 
day  and  night. 

Of  course  he  admitted,  or  rather  he  positively 
affirmed,  according  to  orthodox  doctrine,  that  there 
was  Original  Sin  in  them.  Under  every  human 
exterior,  howrever  fair,  he  postulated  a  heart  "de 
ceitful  above  all  things  and  desperately  wicked." 
This  he  regarded  as  a  well-known  axiom  of  theology, 
but  it  had  no  bearing  at  all  upon  the  fact  of  experi 
ence  that  none  of  his  children  had  ever  lied  to  him, 
and  that  he  would  have  been  amazed  out  of  meas 
ure  if  one  of  them  should  ever  do  a  mean  or  a  cruel 
thing.  Yet  he  believed,  all  the  same,  that  the  mass 
of  depravity  must  be  there,  in  the  nature  which 
they  inherited  through  him  from  Adam,  like  a 
heap  of  tinder,  waiting  for  the  fire.  It  was  his 
208 


EFFECTUAL  FERVENT  PRAYER 

duty  to  keep  the  fire  from  touching  them,  to  guard 
them  from  the  flame,  even  the  spark,  of  worldliness. 
He  gave  thanks  for  his  poverty  which  was  like  a 
wall  about  them.  He  prayed  every  night  that  no 
descendant  of  his  might  ever  be  rich.  He  was 
grateful  for  the  seclusion  and  plainness  of  the  vil 
lage  of  Glendour  in  which  vice  certainly  did  not 
glitter. 

"Separate  from  the  world,"  he  said  to  himself 
often;  "that  is  a  great  mercy.  No  doubt  there  is 
evil  here,  as  everywhere;  but  it  is  not  gilded,  it  is 
not  attractive.  For  my  children's  sake  I  am  glad 
to  live  in  obscurity,  to  keep  them  separate  from  the 
world." 

But  they  were  not  conscious  of  any  oppressive 
sense  of  separation  as  they  walked  homeward, 
through  the  saffron  after-glow  deepening  into 
crimson  and  violet.  The  world  looked  near  to 
them,  and  very  great  and  beautiful,  tingling  with 
life  even  through  its  winter  dress.  The  keen  air, 
the  crisp  snow  beneath  their  feet,  the  quivering 
stars  that  seemed  to  hang  among  the  branches  of 
the  leafless  trees,  all  gave  them  joy.  They  were 
209 


EFFECTUAL  FERVENT  PRAYER 

healthily  tired  and  heartily  hungry;  a  good  supper 
was  just  ahead  of  them,  and  beyond  that  a  long 
life  full  of  wonderful  possibilities;  and  they  were 
very  glad  to  be  alive.  The  two  older  children 
walked  side  by  side  pulling  the  sled  with  Ruth, 
who  was  willing  to  confess  that  she  was  "just  a 
little  mite  tired"  now  that  the  fun  was  over. 

"Esther,"  said  the  boy,  "what  do  you  suppose 
makes  father  so  quiet  and  solemn  lately — more  than 
usual?  Has  anything  happened,  or  is  it  just  think- 
ing?" 

"Well,"  said  the  girl,  who  had  a  touch  of  the 
gentle  tease  in  her,  "perhaps  it  is  just  the  left-over 
sadness  from  finding  out  that  you'd  been  smoking!" 

"Huh,"  murmured  Dan,  "you  drop  that,  Essie! 
That  was  two  weeks  ago — besides,  he  didn't  find 
out;  I  told  him;  and  I  took  my  medicine,  too — 
never  flinched.  That's  all  over.  More  likely  he 
remembers  the  fuss  you  made  about  not  being  let 
to  go  with  the  Slocums  to  see  the  theatre  in  Pitts 
burgh.  You  cried,  baby!  I  didn't." 

The  boy  rubbed  the  back  of  his  hand  reminis- 
cently  against  the  leg  of  his  trousers,  and  Esther 
210 


EFFECTUAL  FERVENT  PRAYER 

was  sorry  she  had  reminded  him  of  a  painful 
subject. 

"Anyway,"  she  said,  "you  had  the  best  of  it. 
I'd  rather  have  gone,  and  told  him  about  it,  and 
taken  a  whipping  afterward." 

"What  stuff!  You  know  dad  wouldn't  whip  a 
girl — not  to  save  her  life.  Besides,  when  a  thing's 
done,  and  'fessed,  and  paid  for,  it's  all  over  with 
dad.  He's  perfectly  fair,  I  must  say  that.  He 
doesn't  nag  like  girls  do." 

"Now  you  drop  that,  Danny,  and  I'll  tell  you 
what  I  think  is  the  matter  with  father.  But  you 
must  promise  not  to  speak  to  him  about  it." 

"All  right,  I  promise.     What  is  it?" 

"I  guess — now  mind,  you  mustn't  tell — but  I'm 
almost  sure  it  is  something  about  our  Uncle  Abel. 
A  letter  came  last  month,  postmarked  Colorado; 
and  last  week  there  was  another  letter  in  the  same 
handwriting  from  Harrisburg.  Father  has  been 
reading  them  over  and  over,  and  looking  sadder 
each  time.  I  guess  perhaps  Uncle  Abel  is  in  trouble 
or  else — 

"You  mean  father's  rich  brother  that  lives  out 
211 


EFFECTUAL  FERVENT  PRAYER 

West?  Billy  Slocum  told  me  about  him  once — • 
says  he's  a  king-pin  out  there,  owns  a  mine  a  mile 
deep  and  full  of  gold,  keeps  lots  of  fast  horses,  wins 
races  all  over  the  country.  He  must  be  great.  You 
mean  him?  Why  doesn't  father  ever  speak  of 
him?" 

The  girl  nodded  her  head  and  lowered  her  voice, 
glancing  back  to  see  that  Ruth  was  not  listening. 

"You  see,"  she  continued,  "father  and  Uncle 
Abel  had  a  break — not  a  quarrel,  but  a  kind  of  a 
divide — when  they  were  young  men.  Lucy  Slocum 
heard  all  about  it  from  her  grandmother,  and  told 
me.  They  were  in  a  college  scrape  together,  and 
father  took  his  punishment,  and  after  that  he  was 
converted,  and  you  know  how  good  he  is.  But  his 
brother  got  mad,  and  he  ran  away  from  college, 
out  West,  and  I  reckon  he  has  been — well,  pretty 
bad.  They  say  he  gambled  and  drank  and  did  all 
sorts  of  things.  He  said  the  world  owed  him  a 
fortune  and  a  good  time.  Now  he's  got  piles  of 
money  and  a  great  big  place  he  calls  Due  North, 
with  herds  of  cattle  and  ponies  and  a  house  full  of 
pictures  and  things.  I  guess  he's  quieted  down 
212 


EFFECTUAL  FERVENT  PRAYER 

some,  but  he  isn't  married,  and  they  say  he  isn't  at 
all  religious.  He's  what  they  call  a  free-thinker, 
and  he  just  travels  around  with  his  horses  and  spends 
money.  I  suppose  that  is  why  father  does  not 
speak  of  him.  You  know  he  thinks  that's  all 
wrong,  very  wicked,  and  he  wants  to  keep  us 
separate  from  it  all. 

The  boy  listened  to  this  long,  breathless  con 
fidence  in  silence,  kicking  the  lumps  of  snow  in 
the  road  as  he  trudged  along. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "it  seems  kind  of  awful  to  have 
two  brothers  divided  like  that,  doesn't  it,  Essie? 
But  I  suppose  father's  right,  he  'most  always  is. 
Only  I  wish  they'd  make  it  up,  and  Uncle  Abel 
would  come  here  with  some  of  his  horses,  and  per 
haps  I  could  go  West  with  him  some  time  to  make 
a  start  in  life." 

"Yes,"  added  the  girl,  "and  wouldn't  it  be  fine 
to  hear  him  tell  about  his  adventures.  And  then 
perhaps  he'd  take  an  interest  in  us,  and  make  things 
easier  for  father,  and  if  he  liked  my  singing  he 
might  give  the  money  to  send  me  to  the  Conserva 
tory  of  Music.  That  would  be  great!" 
213 


EFFECTUAL  FERVENT  PRAYER 

"Yes,"  piped  up  the  voice  of  Ruth  from  the 
sled,  "  and  I  wish  he'd  take  us  all  out  to  Due  North 
with  him  to  see  the  ponies  and  the  big  house.  That 
would  be  just  lovely!" 

Esther  looked  at  Dan  and  smiled.  Then  she 
turned  around. 

"You  little  pitcher,"  she  laughed,  "what  do  you 
have  such  long  ears  for?  But  you  must  keep  your 
mouth  shut,  anyway.  Remember,  I  don't  want 
you  to  speak  to  father  about  Uncle  Abel." 

"I  didn't  promise,"  said  Ruth,  shaking  her  head, 
"and  I  want  him  to  come — it'll  be  better'n  Santa 
Glaus." 

By  this  time  the  children  had  arrived  at  the  little 
red  brick  parsonage,  with  its  white  wooden  porch, 
on  the  side  street  a  few  doors  back  of  the  church. 
They  stamped  the  snow  off  their  feet,  put  the  sled 
under  the  porch,  hung  their  coats  and  hats  in  the 
entry,  and  went  into  the  parlour  on  the  stroke  of 
half  past  five. 

Over  the  mantel  hung  an  engraving  of  "The 
Death-Bed  of  John  Knox,"  which  they  never  looked 
at  if  they  could  help  it;  on  the  opposite  wall  a  copy 
214 


EFFECTUAL  FERVENT  PRAYER 

of  Reynolds's  "Infant  Samuel,"  which  they  adored. 
The  pendent  lamp,  with  a  view  of  Jerusalem  on  the 
shade  and  glass  danglers  around  the  edge,  shed  a 
strong  light  on  the  marble-topped  centre-table  and 
the  red  plush  furniture  and  the  pale  green  paper 
with  gilt  roses  on  it. 

On  Saturday  evening  family  worship  came  be 
fore  supper.  The  cook  and  the  maid-of-all-work 
were  in  their  places  on  the  smallest  chairs,  beside 
the  door.  On  the  sofa,  where  the  children  always 
sat,  their  Bibles  were  laid  out.  The  father  was  in 
the  big  arm-chair  by  the  centre-table  with  the 
book  on  his  knees,  already  open. 

The  passage  chosen  was  the  last  chapter  of  the 
Epistle  of  James.  The  deep,  even  voice  of  Nathaniel 
North  sounded  through  that  terrible  denunciation 
of  unholy  riches  with  a  gravity  of  conviction  far 
more  impressive  than  the  anger  of  the  modern 
muck-raker.  The  hearts  of  the  children,  remem 
bering  their  conversation,  were  disturbed  and  vaguely 
troubled.  Then  came  the  gentler  words  about 
patience  and  pity  and  truthfulness  and  the  healing 
of  the  sick.  At  the  end  each  member  of  the  house- 
215 


EFFECTUAL  FERVENT  PRAYER 

hold  was  to  read  a  sentence  in  turn  and  try  to  ex 
plain  its  meaning  in  a  few  words.  The  portion  that 
fell  to  little  Ruth  was  this: 

"  The  effectual  fervent  prayer  of  a  righteous  man 
availeth  much" 

She  stumbled  over  the  two  longer  words,  but  she 
gave  her  comment  clearly  enough  in  her  childish 
voice. 

"That  means  if  we  obey  Him,  God  will  do  any 
thing  we  ask,  I  suppose." 

The  father  nodded.  "Right,  my  child.  If  we 
keep  the  commandments  our  prayers  are  sure  of 
an  answer.  But  remember  that  the  people  in  the 
first  part  of  the  chapter  have  no  such  promise." 

There  was  an  unusual  fervour  in  the  prayer 
which  closed  the  worship  that  night.  Nathaniel 
North  seemed  to  be  putting  his  arms  around  the 
family  to  shield  them  from  some  unseen  danger. 
The  children,  whose  thoughts  had  wandered  a  little, 
while  he  was  remembering  the  Jews  and  the  heathen 
and  the  missionaries,  in  the  customary  phrases,  felt 
their  hearts  dimly  moved  when  he  asked  that  his 

house  might  be  kept  from  the  power  of  darkness 
216 


EFFECTUAL  FERVENT  PRAYER 

and  the  ravening  wolves  of  sin,  kept  in  unbroken 
purity  and  peace,  holy  and  undefined.  The  potent 
sincerity  of  his  love  came  upon  them.  They  be 
lieved  with  his  faith;  they  consented  with  his 
will. 

At  the  supper-table  there  was  pleasant  talk  about 
books  and  school  work  and  games  and  the  plan  to 
make  a  skating-pond  in  one  of  the  lower  fields  that 
could  be  flooded  after  the  snow  had  fallen.  Na 
thaniel  North,  with  all  his  strictness,  was  very  near 
to  his  children;  he  wished  to  increase  and  to  share 
their  rightful  happiness;  he  wanted  them  to  be 
separate  from  the  world  but  not  from  him.  It  was 
when  they  were  talking  of  the  coming  school  exhi 
bition  that  Ruth  dropped  her  little  surprise  into 
the  conversation. 

"Father,"  she  said,  "will  Uncle  Abel  be  here 
then?  Oh,  I  wish  he  would  come.  I  want  to  see 
him  ever  so  much!" 

He  looked  at  her  with  astonishment  for  a  moment. 

Esther  and  Daniel  exchanged  glances  of  dismay. 

They  did  not  know  what  was  coming.     A  serious 

rebuke  from  their  father  was  not  an  easy  thing  to 

217 


EFFECTUAL  FERVENT  PRAYER 

face.  But  when  he  spoke  there  was  no  rebuke  in 
his  voice. 

"Children,"  he  said,  "it  is  strange  that  one  of 
you  should  speak  to  me  of  my  brother  Abel  when  I 
have  never  spoken  of  him  to  you.  But  it  is  only 
natural,  after  all,  and  I  should  have  foreseen  it  and 
been  more  frank  with  you.  Have  other  people 
told  you  of  him?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  they  cried,  with  sparkling  looks,  but 
the  father's  face  grew  darker  as  he  noticed  their 
eagerness. 

"Let  me  explain  to  you  about  him,"  he  con 
tinued  gravely.  "He  was  my  older  brother — a 
year  older — and  as  boys  we  were  very  fond  of  each 
other.  But  one  day  we  had  to  part  because  our 
paths  went  in  opposite  directions.  He  chose  the 
broad  and  easy  way,  and  I  was  led  into  the  straight 
and  narrow  path.  How  can  two  walk  together  ex 
cept  they  be  agreed?  For  ten  years  I  tried  to  win 
him  back,  but  without  success.  At  last  he  told 
me  that  he  wished  me  never  to  address  him  on  the 
subject  of  religion  again,  for  he  would  rather  lose 
both  his  hands  and  his  feet  than  believe  as  I  did. 
218 


EFFECTUAL  FERVENT  PRAYER 

He  went  on  with  his  reckless  life,  prospering  in  this 
world,  as  I  hear,  but  I  have  never  seen  him  since 
that  time." 

"But  wouldn't  you  like  to  see  him?"  said  Esther, 
dropping  her  eyes.  "He  must  be  quite  a  wonder 
ful  man.  Doesn't  he  write  to  you?" 

Her  father's  lip  twitched,  but  he  still  spoke 
sadly  and  gravely. 

"I  see  you  have  guessed  the  answer  already. 
Yes,  a  letter  came  from  him  some  time  ago,  propos 
ing  a  visit,  which  I  discouraged.  Another  came  this 
week,  saying  that  he  was  on  his  way,  driving  his 
own  horses  across  the  country,  and  though  he  had 
received  no  reply  from  me,  he  hoped  to  get  here 
late  Saturday — that  is,  to-night — or  Sunday  morn 
ing.  Of  course  we  must  welcome  my  own  brother 
— if  he  comes." 

"Why,  he  may  get  here  any  minute,"  cried 
Daniel  eagerly;  "he's  sure  to  change  his  wagon  for 
a  sleigh  in  Pittsburgh,  and  he  won't  have  to  drive 
'way  round  by  the  long  bridge,  he  can  cross  the 
river  on  the  ice.  I  wonder  if  he's  driving  that  fa 
mous  long-distance  team  that  Slocum  told  me  about. 
Oh,  that'll  be  simply  great." 
219 


EFFECTUAL  FERVENT  PRAYER 

"I  must  go  upstairs  right  away,"  exclaimed 
Esther,  with  brightening  face,  "to  see  that  the  guest 
room  is  ready  for  him  when  he  comes." 

"I'll  go  to  help."  cried  Ruth,  clapping  her  hands. 
"  What  fun  to  have  a  real  uncle  here.  I  guess  he'll 
bring  a  present  for  each  of  us." 

"Wait,  my  children,"  said  the  father,  lifting  his 
hand,  "before  you  go  I  have  something  more  to 
say  to  you.  Your  uncle  is  a  man  of  the  world,  and 
you  know  the  world  is  evil;  we  have  been  called  to 
come  out  of  it.  He  does  not  think  as  we  do,  nor 
believe  as  we  do,  nor  live  as  we  do,  according  to  the 
Word.  For  one  thing,  he  cares  nothing  for  the  sanc 
tity  of  the  Sabbath.  Unless  he  has  changed  very 
much,  he  is  not  temperate  nor  reverent.  I  fear  the 
effect  of  his  example  in  Glendour.  I  fear  his  in 
fluence  upon  you,  my  children.  It  is  my  duty  to 
warn  you,  to  put  you  on  your  guard.  It  will  be  a 
hard  trial.  But  we  must  receive  him — if  he  comes." 

"If  he  comes?"  cried  Esther,  evidently  alarmed; 
"there's  no  doubt  of  that,  is  there,  since  he  has 
written?" 

"My  dear,  when  you  know  your  uncle  you  will 

understand  that  there  is  always  a  doubt.     He  is 

220 


EFFECTUAL  FERVENT  PRAYER 

very  irregular  and  uncertain  in  all  his  ways.  He 
may  change  his  mind  or  be  turned  aside.  No  one 
can  tell.  But  go  to  your  tasks  now,  my  children, 
and  to  bed  early.  I  have  some  work  to  do  in  my 
study." 

Each  of  them  kissed  him  good-night,  and  he 
watched  them  out  of  the  room  with  a  look  of  tender 
sternness  in  his  lined  and  rugged  face,  anxious, 
troubled,  and  ready  to  give  his  life  to  safeguard 
them  from  the  invisible  arrows  of  sin.  Then  he 
went  into  his  long,  narrow  book-room,  but  not  to 
work. 

Up  and  down  the  worn  and  dingy  carpet,  between 
the  walls  lined  with  dull  grey  and  brown  and  black 
books,  he  paced  with  heavy  feet.  The  weight  of  a 
dreadful  responsibility  pressed  upon  him,  the 
anguish  of  a  spiritual  conflict  tore  his  heart.  His 
old  affection  for  his  brother  seemed  to  revive  and 
leap  up  within  him,  like  a  flame  from  smothered 
embers  when  the  logs  are  broken  open.  The  mem 
ory  of  their  young  comradeship  and  joys  together 
grew  bright  and  warm.  He  longed  to  see  Abel's 
face  once  more. 

221 


EFFECTUAL  FERVENT  PRAYER 

Then  came  other  memories,  dark  and  cold, 
crowding  in  upon  him  with  evil  faces  to  chill  and 
choke  his  love.  The  storm  of  rebellion  that  led  to 
the  parting,  the  wild  and  reckless  life  in  the  far 
country,  the  gambling,  the  drinking,  the  fighting, 
the  things  that  he  knew  and  the  things  that  he 
guessed — and  then,  the  ways  of  Abel  when  he  re 
turned,  at  times,  in  the  earlier  years,  with  his 
pockets  full  of  money  to  spend  it  in  the  worst  com 
pany  and  with  a  high-handed  indifference  to  all 
restraint,  yet  always  with  a  personal  charm  of 
generosity  and  good-will  that  drew  people  to  him 
and  gave  him  a  strange  power  over  them — and 
then,  Abel's  final  refusal  to  listen  any  more  to  the 
pleadings  of  the  true  faith,  his  good-humoured  ob 
stinacy  in  unbelief,  his  definite  choice  of  the  world 
as  his  portion,  and  after  that  the  long  silence  and 
the  growing  rumours  of  his  wealth,  his  extravagance, 
his  devotion,  if  not  to  the  lust  of  the  flesh,  at  least 
to  the  lust  of  the  eyes  and  the  pride  of  life — all 
these  thoughts  and  pictures  rushed  upon  Nathaniel 
North  and  overwhelmed  him  with  painful  terror 
and  foreboding.  They  seemed  to  loom  above  him 
222 


EFFECTUAL  FERVENT  PRAYER 

and  his  children  like  black  clouds  charged  with 
hidden  disaster.  They  shook  his  sick  heart  with 
an  agony  of  trembling  hatred. 

He  did  not  hate  his  brother — no,  never  that — 
and  there  was  the  poignant  pain  of  it.  The  bond 
of  affection  rooted  in  his  very  flesh,  held  firm  and 
taut,  stretched  to  the  point  of  anguish,  and  vibrat 
ing  in  shrill  notes  of  sorrow  as  the  hammer  of  con 
viction  struck  it.  He  could  not  cast  his  brother 
out  of  his  inmost  heart,  blot  his  name  from  the  book 
of  remembrance,  cease  to  hope  that  the  infinite 
mercy  might  some  day  lay  hold  upon  him  before  it 
was  too  late. 

But  the  things  for  which  that  brother  stood  in  the 
world — the  ungodliness,  the  vainglory,  the  material 
glitter  and  the  spiritual  darkness — these  things  the 
minister  was  bound  to  hate;  and  the  more  he  hated 
the  more  he  feared  and  trembled.  The  intensity  of 
this  fear  seemed  for  the  time  to  blot  out  all  other 
feelings.  The  coming  of  such  a  man,  with  all  his 
attractions,  with  the  glamour  of  his  success,  with 
the  odours  and  enchantments  of  the  world  about 
him,  was  an  incalculable  peril.  The  pastor  agon- 
223 


EFFECTUAL  FERVENT  PRAYER 

ised  for  his  flock,  the  father  for  his  little  ones.  It 
seemed  as  if  he  saw  a  tiger  with  glittering  eyes 
creeping  near  and  crouching  for  a  spring.  It 
seemed  as  if  a  serpent,  with  bright  colours  coiled 
and  fatal  head  poised,  were  waiting  in  the  midst  of 
the  children  for  one  of  them  to  put  out  a  hand  to 
touch  it.  Which  would  it  be?  Perhaps  all  of  them 
would  be  fascinated.  They  were  so  eager,  so  inno 
cent,  so  full  of  life.  How  could  he  guard  them  in  a 
peril  so  subtle  and  so  terrible? 

He  had  done  all  that  he  could  for  them,  but 
perhaps  it  was  not  enough.  He  felt  his  weakness, 
his  helpless  impotence.  They  would  slip  away  from 
him  and  be  lost — perhaps  forever.  Already  his  sick 
heart  saw  them  charmed,  bewildered,  poisoned,  per 
ishing  in  ways  where  his  imagination  shuddered  to 
follow  them. 

The  torture  of  his  love  and  terror  crushed  him. 
He  sank  to  his  knees  beside  the  ink-stained  wooden 
table  on  the  threadbare  carpet  and  buried  his  face 
in  his  arms.  All  of  his  soul  was  compressed  into  a 
single  agony  of  prayer. 

He  prayed  that  this  bitter  trial  might  not  come 
224 


EFFECTUAL  FERVENT  PRAYER 

upon  him,  that  this  great  peril  might  not  approach 
his  children.  He  prayed  that  the  visitation  which 
he  dreaded  might  be  averted  by  almighty  power. 
He  prayed  that  God  would  prevent  his  brother 
from  coming,  and  keep  the  home  in  unbroken  purity 
and  peace,  holy  and  undefiled. 

From  this  strange  wrestling  in  spirit  he  rose  be 
numbed,  yet  calmed,  as  one  who  feels  that  he  has 
made  his  last  effort  and  can  do  no  more.  He  opened 
the  door  of  his  study  and  listened.  There  was  no 
sound.  The  children  had  all  gone  to  bed.  He 
turned  back  to  the  old  table  to  work  until  midnight 
on  his  sermon  for  the  morrow.  The  text  was:  "As 
for  me  and  my  house,  we  ivill  serve  the  Lord." 


II 

Bur  that  sermon  was  not  to  be  delivered.  Mr. 
North  woke  very  early,  before  it  was  light,  and  could 
not  find  sleep  again.  In  the  gray  of  the  morning, 
when  the  little  day  was  creeping  among  the  houses 
of  Glendour,  he  heard  steps  in  the  street  and  then 
a  whisper  of  voices  at  his  gate.  He  threw  his 
225 


EFFECTUAL  FERVENT  PRAYER 

wrapper  around  him  and  went  down  quietly  to 
open  the  door. 

A  group  of  men  were  there,  with  trouble  in  their 
faces.  They  told  him  of  an  accident  on  the  river. 
A  sleigh  crossing  the  ice  during  the  night  had  lost 
the  track.  The  horses  had  broken  into  an  air-hole 
and  dragged  the  sleigh  with  them.  The  man  went 
under  the  ice  with  the  current,  and  came  out  a 
little  while  ago  in  the  big  spring-hole  by  the  point. 
They  had  pulled  the  body  ashore.  They  did  not 
know  for  sure  who  it  was — a  stranger — but  they 
thought — perhaps 

The  minister  listened  silently,  shivering  once  or 
twice,  and  passing  his  hand  over  his  brow  as  if  to 
brush  away  something.  When  their  voices  paused 
and  ceased,  he  said  slowly,  "Thank  you  for  coming 
to  me.  I  must  go  with  you,  and  then  I  can  tell." 
As  he  went  upstairs  softly  and  put  on  his  clothes, 
he  repeated  these  words  to  himself  two  or  three 
times  mechanically — "yes,  then  I  can  tell."  But 
as  he  went  with  the  men  he  said  nothing,  walking 
like  one  in  a  dream. 

On  the  bank  of  the  river,  amid  the  broken  ice 
226 


EFFECTUAL  FERVENT  PRAYER 

and  trampled  yellow  snow,  the  men  had  put  a 
couple  of  planks  together  and  laid  the  body  of  the 
stranger  upon  them  turning  up  the  broad  collar  of 
his  fur  coat  to  hide  his  face.  One  of  the  men  now 
turned  the  collar  down,  and  Nathaniel  North  looked 
into  the  wide-open  eyes  of  the  dead. 

A  horrible  tremor  shook  him  from  head  to  foot. 
He  lifted  his  hands,  as  if  he  must  cry  aloud  in  an 
guish.  Then  suddenly  his  face  and  figure  seemed 
to  congeal  and  stiffen  with  some  awful  inward 
coldness — the  frost  of  the  last  circle  of  the  Inferno 
— it  spread  upon  him  till  he  stood  like  a  soul  im 
prisoned  in  ice. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "this  is  my  brother  Abel.  Will 
you  carry  him  to  my  house?  We  must  bury  him." 

During  the  confusion  and  distress  of  the  follow 
ing  days  that  frozen  rigidity  never  broke  nor  melted. 
Mr.  North  gave  no  directions  for  the  funeral,  took 
no  part  in  it,  but  stood  beside  the  grave  in  dreadful 
immobility.  He  did  not  mourn.  He  did  not  lament. 
He  listened  to  his  friends'  consolation  as  if  it  were 
spoken  in  an  unknown  tongue.  Nothing  helped 
him,  nothing  hurt,  because  nothing  touched  him. 
227 


EFFECTUAL  FERVENT  PRAYER 

He  did  no  work,  opened  no  book,  spoke  no  word  if 
he  could  avoid  it.  He  moved  about  his  house  like 
a  stranger,  a  captive,  shrinking  from  his  children 
so  that  they  grew  afraid  to  come  close  to  him. 
They  were  bewildered  and  harrowed  with  pity. 
They  did  not  know  what  to  do.  It  seemed  as  if  it 
were  their  father  and  not  their  uncle  who  had 
died. 

Every  attempt  to  penetrate  the  ice  of  his  anguish 
failed.  He  gave  no  sign  of  why  or  how  he  suffered. 
Most  of  the  time  he  spent  alone  in  his  book-room, 
sitting  with  his  hands  in  his  lap,  staring  at  the  un 
speakable  thought  that  paralysed  him,  the  thought 
that  was  entangled  with  the  very  roots  of  his  creed 
and  that  glared  at  him  with  monstrous  and  malig 
nant  face  above  the  very  altar  of  his  religion — the 
thought  of  his  last  prayer — the  effectual  prayer, 
the  fervent  prayer,  the  damnable  prayer  that 
branded  his  soul  with  the  mark  of  Cain,  his  brother's 
murderer. 

The  physician  grew  alarmed.  He  feared  the  min 
ister  would  lose  his  reason  in  a  helpless  melancholia. 
The  children  were  heart-broken.  All  their  efforts  to 
228 


EFFECTUAL  FERVENT  PRAYER 

comfort  and  distract  their  father  fell  down  hopeless 
from  the  mask  of  ice,  behind  which  they  saw  him 
like  a  spirit  in  prison.  Daniel  and  Ruth  were  ready 
to  give  up  in  despair.  But  Esther  still  clung  to  the 
hope  that  she  could  do  something  to  rescue  him. 

One  night,  when  the  others  had  gone  to  bed,  she 
crept  down  to  the  sombre  study.  Her  father  did  not 
turn  his  head  as  she  entered.  She  crossed  the  room 
and  knelt  down  by  the  ink-stained  table,  laying  her 
hands  on  his  knee.  He  put  them  gently  away  and 
motioned  her  to  rise. 

"Do  not  do  that,"  he  said  in  a  dull  voice. 

She  stood  before  him,  wringing  her  hands,  the 
tears  streaming  down  her  face,  but  her  voice  was 
sweet  and  steady. 

"Father,"  she  said,  "you  must  tell  me  what  it  is 
that  is  killing  you.  Don't  you  know  it  is  killing 
us  too?  Is  it  right  for  you  to  do  that?  I  know  it 
is  something  more  than  uncle's  death  that  hurts 
you.  It  is  sad  to  lose  a  brother,  but  there  is  some 
thing  deeper  in  your  heart.  Tell  me  what  it  is.  I 
have  the  right  to  know.  I  ask  you  for  mother's 
sake." 

229 


EFFECTUAL  FERVENT  PRAYER 

He  lifted  his  head  and  looked  at  her.  His  eye 
lids  quivered.  His  secret  dragged  downward  in  his 
breast  like  an  iron  hand  clutching  his  throat-strings. 
His  voice  was  stifled.  But  no  matter  what  it  cost 
him,  to  her,  the  first  child  of  his  love,  his  darling, 
he  must  speak  at  last. 

"You  have  the  right  to  know,  Esther,"  he  said, 
with  a  painful  effort.  "I  will  tell  you  what  is  in 
my  soul.  I  killed  my  brother  Abel.  The  night  of 
his  death,  I  knelt  at  that  table  and  prayed  that 
he  might  be  prevented  from  coming  to  this  house. 
My  only  thought,  my  only  wish  was  that  he  must 
be  kept  away.  That  was  all  I  asked  for.  God  killed 
him  because  I  asked  it.  His  blood  is  on  my  soul." 

He  leaned  back  in  his  chair  exhausted,  and  shut 
his  eyes. 

The  girl  stood  dazed  for  a  moment,  struck  dumb 
by  the  grotesque  horror  of  what  she  had  heard. 
Then  the  light  of  Heaven-sent  faith  flashed  through 
her  and  the  courage  of  human  love  warmed  her. 
She  sprang  to  her  father,  sobbing,  almost  laughing 
in  the  joy  of  triumph.  She  flung  herself  across  his 
knees  and  put  her  arms  around  him. 
230 


She  flung  herself  across  his  knees  and  put  her  arms  around  him. 


EFFECTUAL  FERVENT  PRAYER 

"Father,  did  you  teach  us  that  God  is  our  Father, 
our  real  Father?" 

The  man  did  not  answer,  but  the  girl  went 
bravely  on: 

"Father,  if  I  asked  you  to  kill  Ruth,  would  you 
doit?" 

The  man  stirred  a  little,  but  he  did  not  open  his 
eyes  nor  answer,  and  the  girl  went  bravely  on: 

"Father,  is  it  fair  to  God  to  believe  that  He 
would  do  something  that  you  would  be  ashamed  of  ? 
Isn't  He  better  than  you  are?" 

The  man  opened  his  eyes.  The  light  of  his  old 
faith  kindled  in  them.  He  answered  firmly: 

"He  is  infinite,  absolute,  and  unchangeable.  His 
Word  is  sure.  We  dare  not  question  Him.  There 
is  the  promise — the  effectual  fervent  prayer  of  a 
righteous  man  availeth  much." 

The  girl  did  not  look  up.  She  clung  to  him  more 
closely  and  buried  her  face  on  his  breast. 

"Yes,  father  dear,  but  if  what  you  asked  in  your 
prayer  was  wrong,  were  you  a  righteous  man? 
Could  your  prayer  have  any  power?" 

It  was  her  last  stroke — she  trembled  as  she  made 
231 


EFFECTUAL  FERVENT  PRAYER 

it.  There  was  a  dead  silence  in  the  room.  She 
heard  the  slow  clock  ticking  011  the  mantel,  the 
wind  whistling  in  the  chimney.  Then  her  father's 
breast  was  shaken,  his  head  fell  upon  her  shoulder, 
his  tears  rained  upon  her  neck. 

"Thank  God,"  he  cried,  "I  was  a  sinner — it  was 
not  a  prayer — God  be  merciful  to  me  a  sinner!" 


232 


THE   RETURN   OF   THE 
CHARM 


THE    RETURN    OF    THE    CHARM 


"  IN  OR  I,"  cried  John  Harcourt,  pulling  up  in  the 
moon-silvered  mist  and  clapping  his  hand  to  his 
pocket,  "not  a  groat!  Stay,  here  is  a  crooked  six 
pence  of  King  James  that  none  but  a  fool  would 
take.  The  merry  robbers  left  me  that  for  luck.'* 

Dick  Barton  growled  as  he  turned  in  his  saddle. 
"We  must  ride  on,  then,  till  we  find  a  cousin  to 
loan  us  a  few  pounds.  Sir  Empty-purse  fares  ill 
at  an  inn." 

"By  my  sore  seat,"  laughed  Harcourt,  "we'll 
ride  no  farther  to-night.  Here  we  'light,  at  the 
sign  of  the  Magpie  in  the  Moon.  The  rogues  of 
Farborough  Cross  have  trimmed  us  well;  the  honest 
folk  of  Market  Farborough  shall  feed  us  better!" 

"For  a  crooked  sixpence!"  grumbled  Barton. 
"Will  you  beg  our  entertainment  like  a  pair  of 
landlopers,  or  will  you  take  it  by  force  like  our  late 
friends  on  the  road?" 

235 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE   CHARM 

"Neither,"  said  Harcourt,  "but  in  the  fashion 
that  befits  gentlemen — with  a  bold  face,  a  gay 
tongue,  and  a  fine  coat  well  carried.  Remember, 
Dick,  look  up,  and  no  snivelling!  Tell  your  ill- 
fortune  and  you  bid  for  more.  'Tia  Monsieur 
Debonair  that  owns  the  tavern." 

Their  lusty  shouts  brought  the  hostler  on  the 
trot  to  take  their  steaming  horses,  and  the  landlord 
stood  in  the  open  door,  his  broad  face  a  welcome 
to  such  handsome  guests.  They  entered  as  if  the 
place  belonged  to  them,  and  called  for  the  best  it 
contained  as  if  it  were  just  good  enough.  The 
whole  house  was  awake  and  astir  with  their  coming. 
The  smiling  maids  ran  to  and  fro;  the  rustics  in 
the  long  room  stared  and  admired:  the  table  was 
spread  with  a  fair  cloth  and  loaded  with  a  smok 
ing  supper;  and  afterward  there  were  pots  of  ale 
for  all  the  company,  and  a  song  with  a  chorus. 
The  landlord,  with  his  thumbs  in  the  arm-holes 
of  his  waistcoat,  patted  himself  to  see  his  business 
go  so  merrily.  But  the  landlady  came  to  the 
door,  now  and  then,  and  looked  in  with  anxious 
eyes. 

236 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  CHARM 

"Mark  the  mistress,"  whispered  Barton;  "she 
has  her  suspicions." 

"Her  troubles,"  answered  Harcourt,  "and  that 
I  relish  not.  I  will  have  all  happy  around  me,  else 
my  spirit  sinks  and  the  game  is  lost.  I'll  talk 
with  her/' 

He  beckoned  her  to  his  side  with  a  courteous 
gesture. 

"A  famous  supper,  Mistress,"  said  he,  "but  your 
face  is  too  downcast  for  the  maker  of  such  a  master 
piece.  What  is  it  that  ails  you?" 

"It  is  my  child,"  she  answered;  "kind  sir,  my 
little  Faith  is  ill  of  fever,  and  the  physician  has 
been  called  away.  He  has  left  her  a  draught,  but 
she  grows  worse,  and  the  fever  holds  her  from  sleep. 
It  may  be  that  you  know  something  of  the  healing 
art." 

"As  much  as  any  man,"  said  Harcourt,  con 
fidently.  "You  see  in  me,  despite  my  youth,  a 
practitioner  of  the  oldest  school  in  the  world,  a 
disciple  of  Galen's  grandfather.  Let  me  go  with 
you  to  look  at  the  child." 

The  little  girl  lay  in  a  close  room.  Her  curls 
237 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  CHARM 

were  tangled  on  the  pillow  and  her  thin,  brown 
arms  tossed  on  the  hot  counterpane.  By  her  side 
was  a  glass  of  some  dark  medicine,  and  her  black 
eyes  held  more  of  rebellion  than  of  fever  as  she 
gazed  at  the  stranger. 

He  leaned  over  her  with  a  smile,  smoothing  her 
wrists  lightly,  with  slow,  downward  touches,  and 
whispering  in  her  ear.  The  sound  of  the  singing 
below  came  through  the  door  ajar,  and  the  child 
listened  to  her  visitor  as  if  he  were  telling  her  a 
wonderful  tale. 

"Open  the  window,"  he  said,  after  a  while,  to  the 
mother,  pulling  the  sheet  softly  over  the  child's 
shoulders,  "the  air  to-night  is  full  of  silver  threads 
which  draw  away  the  fever." 

Then  he  threw  the  black  draught  out  of  the 
window.  And  the  child,  watching  him,  laughed  a 
little. 

"It  is  the  wrong  medicine,"  said  he.  "Bring  me 
paper  and  pen." 

He  wrote  by  the  light  of  the  flickering  candle, 
hiding  the  words  with  his  other  hand:  Fortune  favour 

Faith. 

238 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE   CHARM 

Then  he  slipped  the  crooked  sixpence  into  the 
paper,  folded  it  carefully,  tucking  the  ends  one  into 
the  other,  and  marked  it  with  a  cross. 

"Hold  it  tight,"  he  said  to  the  child,  closing  the 
fingers  of  her  right  hand  upon  the  little  packet. 
"It  will  let  you  into  the  Garden  of  Good  Dreams. 
And  now  your  carriage  is  ready,  and  now  your 
horses  are  trotting,  gently,  gently,  quickly,  softly 
along  the  white  moon-road  to  the  Land  of  Nod. 
Will  you  go — are  you  going — are  you  gone?" 

Her  eyelids  drooped  and  fell,  and  she  turned  on 
her  right  side  with  a  sigh,  thrusting  her  brown  fist 
under  the  pillow.  Harcourt  drew  the  mother  to 
the  door. 

"Hush,"  he  whispered;  "leave  the  window  wide. 
Your  Faith  holds  an  ancient  potent  charm,  thou 
sands  of  years  old,  better  than  all  medicines.  Do 
not  speak  of  it  to  any  one.  If  you  open  it,  you 
will  lose  it.  Let  her  sleep  with  it  so,  and  bring  it 
me  on  the  morrow." 

In  the  morning,  when  the  landlord  had  served 
breakfast   with   his    own    hands,    Harcourt    called 
boldly  for  the  bill;   and  Barton  stared  at  him,  but 
the  landlord  was  confused. 
239 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  CHARM 

"My  wife,"  he  stammered — "you  must  excuse 
her,  gentlemen,  nothing  will  do  but  she  must  speak 
with  you  herself  about  the  reckoning.  I'll  go  call 
her." 

She  came  with  a  wonder  of  gladness  in  her  face, 
and  the  little  girl  clinging  to  a  fold  of  her  mother's 
dress  by  the  left  hand  and  pressing  the  other  brown 
fist  close  to  her  neck. 

"You  see,"  said  the  mother.  "She  is  well! 
Run,  Faith,  and  kiss  the  gentleman's  hand.  Oh, 
sir,  there  can  be  no  talk  of  payment  between  us — 
we  are  deep  in  your  debt;  but  if  my  child  might 
keep  this  ancient  potent  charm?" 

The  question  hung  in  her  voice.  Harcourt  de 
layed  a  moment,  as  if  in  doubt,  before  he  answered, 
smiling: 

"I  am  loath  to  part  from  it,"  he  said  at  last, 
"but  since  she  has  proved  it,  let  her  keep  it  and 
believe  in  it  for  good — never  for  evil.  Come,  little 
Faith,  kiss  me  good-bye — no,  not  on  the  hand!" 

When  they  were  alone  together,  Barton  turned 
upon  his  companion  with  reproachful  looks. 

"What  is  this  charm?"  he  asked. 

"A  secret,"  answered  the  other  curtly. 
240 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  CHARM 

"I  like  it  not,"  said  Barton,  shaking  his  head; 
"you  go  too  far,  Jack.  You  put  a  deception  on 
these  simple  folk." 

"Who  knows?"  laughed  Harcourt.  "At  least  I 
have  done  them  no  harm.  We  leave  them  happy 
and  ride  on.  How  far  to  your  nearest  cousin?" 


II 

"THE  next  case  is  a  strange  one,"  said  Sir  Richard 
Barton,  Justice  of  the  Peace,  sitting  on  the  bench 
by  his  friend,  the  famous  Judge  who  was  holding 
court  for  Market  Farborough. 

"How  is  it  strange?"  asked  the  Judge,  whose 
face  showed  ruddy  and  strong  beneath  his  white 
wig. 

"It  is  an  accusation  of  witchcraft,"  answered 
Sir  Richard,  "and  that  is  a  serious  thing  in  these 
days.  Yet  it  seems  the  woman  has  a  good  heart 
and  harms  nobody." 

"Beneficent  witchcraft!"  said  the  Judge — "that 
is  a  rarity  indeed.     What  do  you  make  of  it?" 
241 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  CHARM 

"I  am  against  all  superstition,"  said  Sir  Richard 
solemnly;  "it  brings  disorder.  For  religion  we 
have  the  clergy,  and  for  justice  the  lawyers,  and  for 
health  the  doctors.  All  outside  of  that  partakes  of 
license  and  unreason." 

"Yet  outside  of  that,"  mused  the  Judge,  "there 
are  things  that  neither  clergy  nor  lawyers  nor 
doctors  can  explain.  Tell  me,  what  do  people  think 
concerning  this  witch?" 

"The  strict  and  godly  folk,"  answered  Sir 
Richard,  "reckon  her  a  scandal  to  the  town  and  an 
enemy  of  religion.  They  are  of  opinion  that  she 
should  be  put  away,  whether  by  hanging  or  drown 
ing,  or  by  shutting  her  in  a  madhouse.  But  many 
poor  people  have  an  affection  for  her,  because  she 
has  helped  them." 

"And  you?"  asked  the  Judge. 

Sir  Richard  looked  at  him  keenly.  "I  can  better 
tell,"  said  he,  "when  you  have  seen  her  yourself 
and  heard  her  story." 

"That  is  plainly  my  duty,"  said  the  Judge. 
"Clerk,  call  the  next  case." 

As  the  clerk  read  the  name  of  the  accused  and  the 
242 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE   CHARM 

charge  against  her,  the  eyes  of  the  Judge  were 
fixed  curiously  upon  the  prisoner  at  the  bar,  as  if 
he  sought  for  something  forgotten. 

Tall  and  dark,  with  sunburned  face  and  fearless 
eyes,  she  stood  quietly  while  her  way  of  life  was 
told;  her  dwelling,  since  the  death  of  her  parents, 
in  a  cottage  on  the  heath  beyond  the  town;  her 
comings  and  goings  among  the  neighbours;  her 
wonderful  cures  of  sick  animals  and  strange  dis 
eases,  but  especially  of  little  children.  There  were 
some  who  testified  that  she  wras  wilful  and  malicious; 
yet  it  appeared  they  could  only  allege  she  had  with 
held  her  cure,  saying  that  it  was  beyond  her  power. 
The  doctor  was  bitter  against  her,  as  an  unlawful 
person;  and  the  parson  condemned  her,  though  she 
came  often  to  church;  "for,"  said  he,  "the  Scrip 
ture  commands  us,  'Thou  shalt  not  suffer  a  witch 
to  live.'" 

The  face  of  the  Judge  was  troubled.  "Tell  me," 
he  said,  leaning  forward  and  speaking  gravely, 
"are  you  a  witch?" 

"Not  for  evil,  my  Lord,"  answered  the  woman 
simply,  "but  I  have  a  healing  gift." 
243 


"How  do  you  work  your  cures?"  he  asked. 
"What  do  you  to  the  children?" 

"I  open  the  windows  of  the  room  where  they  lie," 
she  answered. 

The  face  of  the  Judge  relaxed,  and  his  eyes 
twinkled  kindly.  "And  then?"  said  he. 

"I  throw  the  black  draught  out  of  the  window 
and  tell  the  children  a  tale  of  the  Garden  of  Good 
Dreams." 

"Is  that  all?"  said  the  Judge,  shading  his  face 
with  his  hand. 

"No,  my  Lord,"  replied  the  woman.  "When  the 
children  are  near  to  sleep,  I  put  my  charm  in  their 
hands." 

"Whence  had  you  this  charm?"  he  said.  "And 
what  is  it?" 

"I  pray  your  Lordship,"  cried  the  woman,  "ask 
me  not,  for  I  can  never  tell." 

"Let  me  see  it,"  said  the  Judge,  with  a  smile. 

So  the  woman,  trembling  and  reluctant,  drew  a 

dark-red  ribbon  from  her  breast,  and  at  the  end  of 

it  a  packet  of  fine  linen  bound  closely  with  white 

silk.     She  laid  it  before  the  Judge.     He  broke  the 

244 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE   CHARM 

silken  thread  and  unrolled  the  linen,  fold  after 
fold,  until  he  came  to  a  yellow  piece  of  paper  with 
writing  on  it,  and  in  the  paper  a  crooked  sixpence 
of  King  James. 

The  coin  and  the  scrap  of  paper  lay  in  his  hand 
as  he  looked  up  and  met  the  shrewd  questioning 
eyes  of  Sir  Richard. 

"Yes,"  answered  the  Baron  Harcourt  in  a  low 
voice,  "you  have  seen  the  coin  before,  and  now  you 
may  read  what  is  written  on  the  paper." 

"Now  I  know,"  said  Sir  Richard,  shaking  his 
head,  "what  charm  you  gave  to  the  woman  and  her 
child  forty  years  ago.  Was  I  not  right?  It  was  a 
deception."  • 

"Who  knows?"  said  the  Baron  Harcourt  cheer 
fully.  "It  has  not  failed  to-day.  Fortune  has 
favoured  Faith." 

He  turned  to  the  clerk.  "Make  record  that  this 
case  is  dismissed  for  want  of  evidence  against  the 
accused.  The  woman  has  done  no  harm.  The 
court  is  adjourned." 

"And  my   charm,"   said   the   woman   eagerly — 
"oh,  my  Lord,  you  will  give  me  back  my  charm?" 
245 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  CHARM 

"That  I  must  keep  for  you,"  he  said  with  kind 
ness,  as  to  a  child.  "But  you  may  still  open  the 
windows,  and  throw  out  the  black  draught,  and  tell 
the  children  of  the  Garden  of  Good  Dreams.  Trust 
me,  that  will  work  wonders." 


246 


HALF-TOLD  TALES 

BEGGARS   UNDER   THE   BUSH 

STRONGHOLD 
IN  THE  ODOUR  OF  SANCTITY 


BEGGARS  under  the  BUSH 


As  I  came  round  the  bush  I  was  aware  of  four 
beggars  in  the  shade  of  it,  counting  their  spoils. 

They  sat  at  their  ease,  with  food  and  a  flagon  of 
wine  before  them  and  silver  cups,  for  all  the  world 
like  gentlefolk  on  a  picnic,  only  happier.  But  I 
knew  them  for  beggars  by  the  boldness  of  their 
asking  eyes  and  the  crook  in  their  fingers. 

They  looked  at  me  curiously,  as  if  to  say,  "What 
do  you  bring  us?" 

"Nothing,  gentlemen,"  I  answered,  "I  am  only 
seeking  information." 

At  this  they  moved  uneasily  and  glanced  at  one 
another  with  a  crafty  look  of  alarm.  Their  crooked 
fingers  closed  around  the  cups. 

"Are  you  a  collector  of  taxes?"  cried  the  first 
beggar. 

249 


BEGGARS  UNDER  THE  BUSH 

"Certainly  not,"  I  replied  with  heat,  "but  a  payer 
of  them!" 

"Come,  come,"  said  the  beggar,  with  a  wink  at 
his  comrades,  "no  insult  intended!  Only  a  prudent 
habit  of  ours  in  these  days  of  mixed  society.  But 
you  are  evidently  poor  and  honest.  Take  a  chair 
on  the  grass.  Honesty  we  love,  and  to  poverty  we 
have  no  objection — in  fact,  we  admire  it — in  others." 

So  I  sat  down  beside  them  in  the  shade  of  the 
bush  and  lit  my  pipe  to  listen. 

In  the  hot  field  below,  a  man  was  ploughing 
amid  the  glare  of  the  sun.  The  reins  hung  about 
his  neck  like  a  halter,  and  he  clung  to  the  jerking 
handles  of  the  plough  while  the  furrows  of  red  earth 
turned  and  fell  behind  him  like  welts  on  the  flank 
of  the  hill. 

"A  hard  life,"  said  the  second  beggar,  draining 
his  cup,  "but  healthy!  And  very  useful!  The 
world  must  have  bread." 

"Plenty  of  it,"  said  the  third  beggar,  "else  what 
would  become  of  that?" 

He  nodded  down  the  valley,  where  tall  spires 
pointed  toward  the  blue  and  taller  chimneys  veiled 
250 


BEGGARS  UNDER  THE  BUSH 

it  with  black.  The  huddled  city  seemed  to  move 
and  strain  and  quiver  under  the  dusky  curtain,  and 
the  fumes  of  its  toil  hung  over  it  like  steam  from  a 
sweating  horse. 

"It  is  a  sad  sight,"  said  the  fourth  beggar,  waving 
his  hand  with  the  gesture  of  an  orator.  "Shake 
speare  was  right  when  he  said,  'God  made  the 
country  and  man  made  the  town.'  Admit  for  the 
present  that  cities  are  necessary  evils.  The  time  is 
coming  when  every  man  must  have  his  country- 
place.  Meanwhile  let  us  cultivate  the  rural  virtues." 

He  smacked  his  lips  and  lifted  the  flagon. 

"Right,"  said  the  first  beggar,  "a  toast!  To  the 
simple  life!" 

So  the  four  quaffed  a  cupful  of  wine — and  I  a  puff 
of  smoke — to  the  simple  life. 

In  the  bush  was  a  bird,  very  busy  catching  flies. 
He  perched  on  a  branch,  darted  into  the  air,  caught 
his  fly,  and  fluttered  to  another  branch.  Between 
flies  he  chirped  and  twittered  cheerfully. 

"Beautiful  bird,"  said  the  first  beggar,  leaning 
back,  "a  model  of  cheerful  industry!  What  do  they 
call  him?" 

251 


BEGGARS  UNDER  THE  BUSH 

"A  warbler,"  said  I,  "because  he  has  so  little 
voice." 

"He  might  sing  better,"  observed  the  second  beg 
gar,  "if  he  did  not  work  so  hard  catching  flies." 

But  the  fourth  beggar  sighed  and  wiped  the  cor 
ner  of  his  left  eye,  for  he  was  a  tender-hearted  man 
on  one  side. 

"I  am  thinking,"  said  he,  "of  the  poor  flies!" 

"Bet  you  a  hundred  to  ten  he  doesn't  catch  the 
next  one,"  said  the  third  beggar. 

"Done,"  cried  the  others,  but  before  the  stakes 
were  counted  out,  the  bird  had  flown. 

"Tell  me,  sirs,"  I  began,  when  they  had  stripped 
the  gilded  bands  from  their  cigars  and  lighted  them, 
"what  it  is  that  makes  you  all  so  innocently  merry 
and  contented  in  this  troublous  world?" 

"It  is  a  professional  secret,"  said  the  first  beggar. 
"If  we  tell  it,  you  will  give  it  away." 

"Never,"  I  answered.  "I  only  want  to  put  it 
into  a  poem." 

The  beggars  looked  at  one  another  and  laughed 
heartily.     "That  will  do  no  harm,"  said  they,  "our 
secret  will  be  safe  there." 
252 


BEGGARS  UNDER  THE  BUSH 

"Well,  then,"  said  the  first  beggar  gravely,  "it 
is  religion.  We  approve  the  conduct  of  Providence. 
It  must  be  all  right.  The  Lord  is  on  our  side.  It 
would  be  wicked  to  ask  why.  We  practise  the  grace 
of  resignation,  and  find  peace." 

"No,"  said  the  second  beggar  smiling,  "religion  is 
an  old  wives'  tale.  It  is  philosophy  that  makes  us 
contented.  Nothing  could  be  unless  it  was,  and 
nothing  is  different  from  what  it  has  to  be.  Evo 
lution  goes  on  evolving  all  the  time.  So  here  we 
are,  you  see,  in  the  best  world  possible  at  the  pres 
ent  moment.  Why  not  make  the  most  of  it?  Pass 
me  the  flagon." 

"Not  at  all,"  interrupted  the  fourth  beggar  loudly, 
"I  will  have  none  of  your  selfish  religion  or  your  im 
moral  philosophy.  I  am  a  Reformer.  This  is  the 
worst  world  possible,  and  that  is  why  I  enjoy  it.  It 
gives  me  my  chance  to  make  orations  about  reform. 
Philanthropy  is  the  secret  of  happiness." 

"Piffle!"  said  the  third  beggar,  tossing  a  gold 
coin  in  the  air.  "You  talk  as  if  people  heard  you. 
The  secret  of  happiness — religion,  philosophy,  phil 
anthropy? — poppycock!  It  is  luck,  sheer  luck.  Life 
253 


BEGGARS  UNDER  THE  BUSH 

is  a  game  of  chance.     Heads  I  win,  tails  you  lose. 
Will  you  match  me,  Master  Poet?" 

"You  will  have  to  excuse  me,"  I  said,  "I  have 
only  a  penny  in  my  pocket.  But  I  am  still  puzzled 
by  your  answers.  You  seem  of  many  minds,  but  of 
one  spirit.  You  are  all  equally  contented.  How  is 
this?" 

The  eyes  of  the  beggars  turned  to  the  piles  of 
booty  in  front  of  them,  and  they  all  nodded  their 
heads  wisely  as  if  to  say,  "you  can  see." 

A  packet  of  papers  lay  before  the  first  beggar  and 
his  look  lingered  on  them  with  love. 

"How  came  you  by  these?"  I  asked. 

"An  old  gentleman  gave  them  to  me,"  he  an 
swered.  "  He  said  he  was  my  grandfather.  He  was 
an  unpleasant  old  fellow,  but  God  rest  his  soul! 
These  are  all  gilt-edged." 

The  second  beggar  was  playing  with  a  heap  of 
jewels.  He  was  a  handsome  fellow  with  fine  hands. 

"How  did  you  get  these  pretty  things?"  said  I. 

"By  consenting  to  be  married,"  he  replied.     "It 
was  easy  enough.     She  squints,  and  her  grammar  is 
defective,  but  she  is  a  good  little  thing." 
254 


BEGGARS  UNDER  THE  BUSH 

The  third  beggar  ran  his  fingers  through  the  pile 
of  gold  before  him,  and  took  up  a  coin,  now  and  then, 
to  flip  it  in  the  air. 

"How  did  you  earn  this?"  I  asked. 

"Earn  it!"  said  he  scornfully,  "do  you  take  me 
for  a  labouring  man?  These  fellows  here  lent  me 
something,  and  I  bet  on  how  much  corn  that  fellow 
down  there  with  the  plough  would  raise — and  the 
rest — why,  the  rest  was  luck,  sheer  luck!" 

"And  you?"  I  turned  to  the  fourth  beggar  who 
had  a  huge  bag  beside  him,  so  full  of  silver  that  the 
dimes  and  quarters  ran  from  the  mouth  of  it. 

"I,"  said  he  loftily,  "am  a  Reformer.  The  people 
love  me  and  give  me  whatever  I  want,  because  I  tell 
them  that  these  other  beggars  have  no  right  to  their 
money.  I  am  going  to  be  President." 

At  this  they  all  burst  into  shouts  of  laughter  and 
rolled  on  the  grass.  Even  the  Reformer  chuckled  a 
little. 

While  they  were  laughing,  the  ploughman  came 
up  with  an  axe  and  began  to  chop  at  the  bush. 

"What  are  you  doing  to  our  bush?"  cried  the 
beggars. 

255 


BEGGARS  UNDER  THE  BUSH 

"Chopping  it  down,"  said  the  ploughman. 
"But  why?"  cried  they. 
"I  must  plough  this  field,"  said  he. 
So  the  beggars  grabbed  their  spoils  and  scuttled 
away  to  other  countries,  and  I  went  on  over  the  hill. 


256 


STRONGHOLD 


IT  rose  upon  the  rock  like  a  growth  of  nature; 
secure,  commanding,  imperturbable;  mantled  with 
ivy  and  crowned  with  towers;  a  castle  of  the  olden 
time,  called  Stronghold. 

Below  it,  the  houses  of  the  town  clung  to  the  hill 
side,  creeping  up  close  to  the  castle  wall  and  clus 
tering  in  its  shadow  as  if  to  claim  protection.  In 
truth,  for  many  a  day  it  had  been  their  warden 
against  freebooter  and  foreign  foe,  gathering  the 
habitations  of  the  humble  as  a  hen  gathers  her 
chickens  beneath  her  wings  to  defend  them  from 
the  wandering  hawk. 

But  those  times  of  disorder  and  danger  were  long 
257 


STRONGHOLD 

past.  The  roaming  tribes  had  settled  down  in  their 
conquered  regions.  The  children  of  the  desert  had 
learned  to  irrigate  their  dusty  fields.  The  robber 
chiefs  had  sobered  into  merchants  and  money 
lenders.  The  old  town  by  the  river  had  a  season 
of  peace,  labouring  and  making  merry  and  sleeping 
and  bringing  forth  children  and  burying  its  dead  in 
tranquillity,  protected  by  forts  far  away  and  guarded 
by  ships  on  distant  waters. 

Yet  Stronghold  still  throned  upon  the  rock, 
proudly  dominant;  and  the  houses  full  of  manifold 
life  were  huddled  at  its  foot;  and  the  voices  of  men 
and  women  and  little  children,  talking  or  laughing 
or  singing  or  sobbing  or  cursing  or  praying,  went 
up  around  it  like  smoke. 

Now  the  late  lord  of  the  castle,  in  the  last  age  of 
romance,  had  carried  off  a  beautiful  peasant  girl 
with  dove's  eyes,  whom  he  married  on  her  death 
bed  where  she  gave  birth  to  their  son.  The  blood 
of  his  father  and  of  his  mother  met  in  the  boy's 
body,  and  in  his  soul  their  spirits  were  mingled,  so 
that  he  was  by  times  haughty  and  gentle,  and  by 
turns  fierce  and  tender,  and  he  grew  up  a  dreamer 
258 


•       v-  I  \  '          /  S"^*- 

:.(;•'(      :^       /     /,:>~f^  ( 


Stronghold. 


STRONGHOLD 

with  sudden  impulses  to  strong  action.  To  him,  at 
his  father's  death,  fell  the  lordship  of  the  castle; 
and  he  was  both  proud  and  thoughtful;  and  he  con 
sidered  the  splendour  of  his  ancient  dwelling  and  the 
duties  of  his  high  station. 

The  doors  of  Stronghold,  at  this  time,  were  always 
open,  not  only  for  the  going  out  of  the  many  re 
tainers  and  servants  on  their  errands  of  business 
and  mercy  and  pleasure  in  the  town,  but  also  for 
the  citizens  and  the  poor  folk  who  came  seeking  em 
ployment,  or  demanding  justice,  or  asking  relief  for 
their  necessities.  The  lord  of  the  castle  had  ordered 
that  none  should  be  denied,  and  that  a  special  wel 
come  should  be  given  to  those  who  came  with  words 
of  enlightenment  and  counsel,  to  interpret  the 
splendour  of  Stronghold  and  help  its  master  to 
learn  the  duties  of  his  high  station. 

So  there  came  many  men  with  various  words. 
Some  told  him  of  the  days  when  Stronghold  was  the 
defence  of  the  land  and  the  foreign  foe  was  broken 
against  it.  Some  walked  with  him  in  the  long  hall 
of  portraits  and  narrated  the  brave  deeds  of  his  an 
cestors.  Some  explained  to  him  the  history  of  the 
259 


STRONGHOLD 

heirlooms,  and  showed  him  how  each  vessel  of  silver 
and  great  carved  chair  and  richly  faded  tapestry 
had  a  meaning  which  made  it  precious. 

Other  men  talked  to  him  of  the  future  and  of  the 
things  that  he  ought  to  do.  They  set  forth  new 
schemes  of  industry  by  which  the  castle  should  be 
changed  into  a  central  power-house  or  a  silk-mill. 
They  unfolded  new  plans  of  bounty  by  which  the 
hungry  should  be  clad,  and  the  naked  fed,  and  the 
sick  given  an  education.  They  told  him  that  if  he 
would  do  these  things,  in  the  course  of  a  hundred 
years  or  so  all  would  be  well. 

But  the  trouble  was  that  their  counsels  were  con 
tradictory,  and  their  promises  were  distant,  and  the 
lord  of  the  castle  was  impatient  and  bewildered  in 
mind.  For  meantime  the  manifold  voices  of  the 
town  went  up  around  him  like  smoke,  and  he  knew 
that  underneath  it  some  fires  of  trouble  and  sorrow 
must  be  burning. 

Then  came  two  barefaced  and  masterful  men  who 
told  him  bluntly  that  the  first  duty  of  his  high  sta 
tion  was  to  abandon  it. 

"What  shall  I  do  then?"  he  asked. 
260 


STRONGHOLD 

"Work  for  your  living,"  they  shouted. 

"What  do  you  do  for  your  living?"  he  in 
quired. 

"\Ve  tell  other  men  what  to  do,"  replied  they. 

"And  do  you  think,"  said  he,  "that  your  job  is 
any  harder  than  mine,  or  that  you  work  more  than 
I  do?"  So  he  gave  order  that  they  should  have  a 
good  supper  and  be  escorted  from  the  castle,  for  he 
had  no  time  to  waste  upon  mummers. 

But  the  confusion  in  his  mind  continued,  because 
the  spirits  of  his  father  and  his  mother  were  working 
within  him,  and  the  impulse  to  sudden  action  gath 
ered  force  beneath  his  dreams.  So  he  was  glad  when 
the  next  visitor  came  bearing  the  marks  of  evident 
sincerity  and  a  great  purpose. 

His  beard  was  untrimmed,  his  garb  was  rude,  his 
feet  were  bare,  like  an  ancient  prophet.  His  voice 
was  fiercely  quiet,  and  his  eyes  burned  while  he 
talked,  as  if  he  saw  to  the  root  of  all  things.  He 
called  himself  John  the  Nothingarian. 

The  lord  of  the  castle  related  some  of  the  plans 
which  his  counsellors  had  made  for  his  greater  use 
fulness. 

261 


STRONGHOLD 

"They  are  puerile,"  said  the  Nothingarian,  "fu 
tile,  because  they  do  not  go  to  the  root." 

Then  the  young  lord  spoke  of  the  legends  of  his 
forefathers  and  the  history  of  Stronghold. 

"They  are  dusty  tales,"  said  the  Nothingarian, 
"false,  because  they  do  not  go  to  the  root." 

"How  shall  we  get  to  the  root?"  asked  the  young 
lord,  trembling  with  a  new  eagerness. 

"There  is  only  one  way,"  answered  the  prophet. 
"Come  with  me." 

As  they  went  through  the  outer  passageway  the 
old  man  pressed  hard  with  his  hands  against  one 
of  the  stones  in  the  wall,  and  a  little  door  slid  open. 

"The  secret  stair,"  said  he,"  by  which  your  fathers 
brought  in  their  stolen  women.  Your  Stronghold 
is  honeycombed  with  lies." 

The  young  lord's  face  was  red  as  fire.  "  I  never 
knew  of  it,"  he  murmured. 

In  the  vaulted  crypt  beneath  the  castle  the  old 
man  found  a  lantern  and  a  pickaxe.  He  went  to 
an  alcove  walled  with  plaster  and  picked  at  it  with 
the  axe.  The  plaster  fell  away.  On  the  floor  of  the 
alcove  lay  two  crumpled  bodies  of  men  long  dead; 
262 


STRONGHOLD 

the  clothes  were  rotting  upon  the  bones  and  a  dag 
ger  stuck  fast  in  each  back. 

"They  were  stabbed  as  they  sat  at  meat,"  said 
the  old  man,  "for  the  gain  of  their  gold.  Your 
Stronghold  is  cemented  with  blood." 

The  young  lord's  face  grew  dark  as  night.  "I 
never  knew  of  it,"  he  muttered. 

"Come,"  said  the  other,  "I  see  we  must  go  a  little 
deeper  before  you  know  where  you  stand." 

So  he  led  the  way  through  the  long  vaults,  where 
the  cobwebs  trailed  like  rags  and  the  dripping  pen- 
dules  of  lime  hung  from  the  arches  like  dirty  icicles, 
until  he  came  to  the  foundation  of  the  great  tower. 
There  he  set  down  the  lantern  and  began  to  dig, 
fiercely  and  silently,  close  to  the  corner-stone,  throw 
ing  out  the  rubble  with  his  bare  hands.  At  last  the 
pick  broke  through  into  a  hollow  niche.  At  the 
bottom  of  it  was  the  skeleton  of  a  child  about  five 
years  old,  and  the  cords  that  bound  her  little  hands 
and  feet  lay  in  white  dust  upon  the  sunken  bones. 

"You  see!"  said  the  old  man,  wiping  his  torn 
hands  on  his  robe.  "The  corner-stones  were  laid 
for  safety  on  the  body  of  a  murdered  innocent. 

263 


STRONGHOLD 

Your  Stronghold  is  founded  on  cruelty.  This  is  the 
root." 

The  young  lord's  face  went  white  as  death.  "  Hor 
rible  ! "  he  cried.  "  But  what  to  do?  " 

"Do  away  with  it!"  said  the  Nothingarian. 
"That  is  the  only  thing.  Come!" 

He  went  out  into  the  night  and  the  young  lord 
followed  him,  the  sudden  impulse  to  strong  action 
leaping  in  his  heart  and  pounding  in  his  temples 
and  ringing  in  his  ears,  like  a  madness. 

They  passed  around  behind  the  great  tower, 
where  it  stood  close  to  the  last  pinnacle  of  the  rock 
and  rose  above  it,  bolted  to  the  high  crest  of  stone 
by  an  iron  bar. 

"Here  is  the  clutch  of  your  Stronghold,"  said  the 
old  man  urgently.  "Break  that  and  all  goes  down. 
Dare  you  strike  to  the  root?" 

"I  dare,"  he  cried,  "for  I  must.  A  thing  built 
on  cruelty,  cemented  with  blood,  and  worm-eaten 
with  lies  is  hateful  to  me  as  to  God." 

He  lifted  the  pick  and  struck.  Once!  and  the 
castle  trembled  to  its  base  and  the  servants  ran  out 
at  the  doors.  Twice!  and  the  tower  swayed  and  a 
264 


STRONGHOLD 

cry  of  fear  arose.  Thrice!  and  the  huge  walls  of 
Stronghold  rocked  and  crashed  and  thundered  down 
upon  the  sleeping  town,  burying  it  in  wild  ruin! 

Dead  silence  for  an  instant — and  then,  through 
the  cloud  of  dust  that  hung  above  the  flattened 
houses,  came  a  lamentable  tumult.  Voices  of  men 
and  women  and  little  children,  shrieking  in  fear, 
groaning  with  pain,  whimpering  for  pity,  moaning 
in  mortal  anguish,  rose  like  smoke  from  the  pit  be 
neath  the  wreck  of  Stronghold. 

The  young  lord  listened,  dizzy  and  sick  with  hor 
ror.  Then  he  looked  at  the  Nothingarian  whose 
eyes  glittered  wildly.  He  swung  up  the  pickaxe 
again. 

"Curse  you,"  he  cried,  "why  didn't  you  tell  me 
of  this?  "  And  he  split  his  head  down  to  the  beard. 


265 


IN -the  ODOUR  of  SANCTITY 


Mortem  suscepit  cantando 

LAST  of  all,  the  crouching  plague  leaped  upon  the 
Count  Angelo  (whose  women  and  boon  companions 
already  lay  dead  around  him  in  his  castle  of  Monte- 
feltro),  and  dragged  him  from  the  banquet-hall  of 
many  delights  into  the  dim  alley  of  the  grave.  There 
he  looked,  as  it  were  through  a  door  half  open,  into 
the  shapeless  horror  of  the  face  of  Death,  which 
turns  all  desires  into  stone.  But  even  while  he 
looked,  the  teeth  of  the  black  beast  that  gripped 
him  were  loosened,  and  he  crept  back  into  life  as 
one  returning  from  a  far  country. 

His  castle  was  empty  save  for  the  few  terror- 
266 


IN   THE   ODOUR   OF   SANCTITY 

stricken  servants  who  lingered  because  they  knew 
not  whither  to  flee.  In  the  garden  withered  the 
rose  and  the  lily,  untended  and  unplucked.  The 
chairs  and  couches  where  he  had  seen  the  faces  of 
his  friends  were  vacant.  On  the  pillows  of  his  great 
bed  there  were  no  curls  of  tangled  gold,  nor  plaited 
tresses  of  long  black  spread  out  beside  him  in  the 
morning  light. 

The  world  in  which  he  had  revelled  away  his 
youth  was  void;  and  in  the  unknown  world,  from 
whose  threshold  he  had  painfully  escaped,  but 
whither  he  knew  he  must  one  day  return,  there 
dwelt  only  a  horrible  fear  and  a  certain  looking  for 
of  judgment. 

So  Count  Angelo  came  to  life  again.  But  all  de 
sires  and  passions  which  had  hitherto  warmed  or 
burned  him  were  like  dead  embers.  For  the  flame 
of  them  all  had  gone  into  one  desire — the  resolve  to 
die  in  the  odour  of  sanctity,  and  so  to  pass  into  Para 
dise  safely  and  unafraid. 

Therefore  he  put  aside  the  fine  garments  which 
his  trembling  servants  brought,  and  clad  himself 
in  sackcloth  with  a  girdle  of  rope  about  his  loins. 
267 


IN   THE   ODOUR   OF   SANCTITY 

Thus  apparelled  he  climbed  on  foot  to  the  holy 
mountain  of  La  Verna,  above  the  Val  d'Arno,  which 
mountain  the  Count  Rolando  of  Montefeltro  had 
given,  many  years  before,  to  St.  Francis  the  min 
strel  of  God  and  his  poor  little  disciples  of  the  cross, 
for  a  refuge  and  a  sanctuary  near  the  sky.  At  the 
door  of  the  Friary  built  upon  the  land  of  his  fore 
fathers  the  Count  Angelo  knocked  humbly  as  a 
beggar. 

"Who  is  there?"  said  the  door-keeper  from  his 
loophole. 

"A  poor  sinner,"  answered  Angelo,  "who  has  no 
wish  left  in  life  but  to  die  in  the  odour  of  sanctity." 

At  this  the  door-keeper  opened  grudgingly,  sup 
posing  he  had  to  do  with  some  outcast  seeking  the 
house  of  religion  as  a  last  resort.  But  when  he  saw 
the  stranger  he  knew  that  it  was  the  rich  and  gen 
erous  Count  of  Montefeltro. 

"May  it  please  your  lordship  to  enter,"  he  cried; 
"the  guest-chamber  awaits  you,  and  the  friars  minor 
of  St.  Francis  will  rejoice  in  the  presence  of  their 
patron." 

"Not  so,"  replied  Angelo;  "but  in  the  meanest 
268 


IN   THE   ODOUR   OF   SANCTITY 

of  your  cells  will  I  lodge.  For  I  am  come  not  to 
bestow,  but  to  beg,  and  my  request  is  the  lowest 
place  among  the  little  servants  of  poverty." 

Whereupon  the  door-keeper  was  greatly  aston 
ished,  and  led  Angelo  to  the  Warden,  to  whom 
he  unfolded  his  purpose  to  strip  himself  of  all 
worldly  gear  and  possessions  and  give  his  remnant 
of  life  solely  to  the  preparation  of  a  saintly  death. 
This  proposal  the  Warden  and  the  other  brethren 
duly  considered,  not  without  satisfaction,  and  An 
gelo  was  received  as  a  penitent  and  a  novice. 

The  first  year  of  his  probation  he  passed  as  a 
servant  of  the  cattle  and  the  beasts  of  burden, 
cleansing  their  stables  and  conversing  only  with 
them.  "For,"  said  he,  "the  ox  and  the  ass  knew 
their  Lord  in  the  manger,  but  I  in  my  castle  was 
deaf  to  his  voice." 

The  second  year  of  his  probation  he  laboured  in 
the  kitchen,  washing  the  dishes  and  preparing  the 
food  for  the  friars,  but  he  himself  ate  sparingly  and 
only  of  the  crusts  and  crumbs  which  the  others  had 
despised.  "For,"  said  he,  "I  am  less  worthy  than 
that  lad  who  brought  the  few  loaves  and  small 


IN   THE   ODOUR   OF   SANCTITY 

fishes  to  feed  the  multitude,  and  for  me  it  is  enough 
to  eat  of  the  fragments  that  remain." 

In  all  this  he  was  so  diligently  humble  and  self- 
denying  that  in  the  third  year  he  was  admitted 
fully  to  the  order  and  given  the  honourable  office  of 
sweeping  and  cleansing  the  sacred  places. 

In  this  duty  Angelo  showed  an  extraordinary  de 
votion.  Not  content  with  this,  he  soon  began  to 
practise  upon  himself  particular  and  extreme  asperi 
ties  and  macerations.  He  slept  only  upon  the 
ground  and  never  beyond  an  hour  at  one  space, 
rising  four  and  twenty  times  a  day  to  his  prayers. 
He  fasted  thrice  in  the  week  from  matins  to  matins, 
and  observed  the  rule  of  silence  every  six  days, 
speaking  only  on  the  seventh.  He  wore  next  to  his 
naked  skin  a  breastplate  of  iron,  and  a  small  leather 
band  with  sharp  points  about  his  loins,  and  rings 
of  iron  under  his  arms,  whereby  his  flesh  was  wasted 
and  frayed  from  his  bones  like  a  worn  garment  with 
holes  in  it,  and  he  bled  secretly.  By  reason  of  these 
things  his  face  fell  away  into  a  dolorous  sadness, 
and  the  fame  of  his  afflictions  spread  through  the 
Friary  and  to  other  houses  where  the  little  brothers 
of  St.  Francis  wrere  assembled. 
270 


IN   THE   ODOUR   OF   SANCTITY 

But  the  inward  gladness  of  Angelo  did  not  in 
crease  in  measure  with  his  outward  sadness  and  the 
renown  of  his  piety.  For  the  ray  and  the  flame  of 
divine  Consolation  were  diminished  within  him,  and 
he  no  longer  felt  that  joy  which  he  had  formerly 
in  the  cleansing  of  the  stables,  in  the  washing  of 
the  dishes,  and  in  the  sweeping  of  the  holy  places, 
from  which  he  was  now  relieved  by  reason  of  bodily 
weakness.  He  was  tormented  with  the  fear  that  his 
penances  might  not  sufficiently  atone  for  the  sinful 
pleasures  of  his  past  life,  of  which  he  had  a  vivid 
and  growing  remembrance.  The  thought  was  ever 
present  with  him  that  he  might  not  be  predestined 
to  die  in  the  odour  of  sanctity. 

In  this  anguish  of  heart  he  went  forth  one  day 
into  the  wood  which  lies  on  the  top  of  the  moun 
tain  of  La  Verna,  beyond  the  Friary,  and  ran  up 
and  down,  stumbling  among  the  roots  of  the  trees 
and  calling  aloud  with  sighs  and  tears,  "Little 
wretch,  thou  art  lost!  Abominable  sinner  Angelo, 
how  shalt  thou  find  a  holy  death?" 

To  him,  in  this  distraction,  comes  the  Warden 
with  three  of  the  older  friars  and  asks  him  what 
has  befallen  him. 

271 


IN   THE   ODOUR   OF   SANCTITY 

"The  fear  of  dying  in  my  sins,"  cries  Angelo. 

"You  have  the  comfort  of  the  Gospel,  my  son," 
says  the  Warden. 

"It  is  not  enough  for  me,"  sobs  Angelo,  beating 
his  wounded  breast.  "You  know  not  how  great 
were  my  pleasures  in  the  world!" 

With  that  he  starts  away  again  to  wander  through 
the  wood,  but  the  Warden  restrains  him,  and  soothes 
him,  and  speaks  comfortably  to  him;  and  at  last 
Angelo  makes  his  request  that  he  may  have  a  cer 
tain  cave  in  the  woods  for  his  dwelling  and  be  en 
closed  there  as  a  recluse  to  await  the  coming  of  a 
holy  death. 

"But,  my  son,"  objects  the  Warden,  "what  will 
the  Friary  do  without  the  example  of  your  devotion 
and  your  service?" 

"I  will  pray  for  you  all,"  says  Angelo;  "night 
and  day  I  will  give  myself  to  intercession  for  the 
order  of  friars  minor." 

So  the  Warden  consents,  and  Angelo,  for  the  time, 
is  satisfied. 

Now,  the  top  of  the  mountain  of  La  Verna  is 
full  of  rude  clefts  and  caverns,  with  broken  and 
272 


IN   THE   ODOUR   OF   SANCTITY 

jagged  rocks.  Truly,  it  were  a  frightful  place  to 
behold  but  for  the  tall  trees  that  have  grown  up 
among  the  rocks,  clasping  them  with  their  roots, 
and  the  trailing  vines  and  gentle  wild  flowers  and 
green  ferns  that  spring  abundantly  around  them  as 
if  in  token  of  kindness  and  goodwill  and  bounty. 

All  these  were  much  beloved  of  St.  Francis,  who 
heard  every  creature  cry  aloud,  saying  "God  made 
me  for  thee,  O  man."  So  great  was  his  affection 
for  them  that  he  would  not  have  his  little  friars  cut 
down  a  whole  tree  for  firewood,  but  bade  them  only 
lop  the  branches  and  let  the  tree  live  in  joy.  And 
he  taught  them  to  make  no  garden  of  pot-herbs 
only,  but  to  leave  room  always  for  the  flowers,  for 
love  of  One  who  was  called  "the  rose  of  Sharon," 
and  "the  lily  of  the  valley." 

But  this  was  not  the  mind  of  Angelo,  who  stum 
bled  to  his  reclusery  blindly,  intent  only  on  the 
thought  of  his  death,  and  never  marking  the  fine 
lace-work  of  the  ferns  that  were  broken  by  his  pass 
ing  nor  the  sweet  fragrance  of  the  flowers  crushed 
beneath  his  feet. 

The  cave  which  he  had  chosen  lay  a  little  beyond 
273 


IN   THE   ODOUR   OF   SANCTITY 

that  most  sacred  cavern  where  St.  Francis  had 
fasted  and  where  the  falcon  had  visited  him  every 
morning,  beating  her  wings  and  singing  to  rouse 
him  softly  to  matins,  and  where  at  last  he  had 
received  in  his  body  the  marks  of  the  holy 
Cross. 

It  was  on  the  side  of  the  mountain  looking  to 
ward  the  west,  and  in  front  of  it  was  a  narrow, 
deep,  and  terrible  chasm,  which  could  only  be  crossed 
by  a  log  laid  in  the  manner  of  a  bridge.  But  the 
cave  itself  looked  out  beyond  into  the  wide  and 
fruitful  Val  d'Arno,  with  the  stream  of  silver  coil 
ing  through  it,  and  on  the  other  side  the  wooded 
mountains  of  Valombrosa  and  Pratomagno. 

Of  this  Angelo  saw  nothing,  as  he  passed  by  the 
log  bridge  into  the  cave.  The  three  friars  who 
went  with  him  walled  up  the  entrance  with  stones, 
except  for  an  opening  at  the  height  of  a  man's 
breast;  and  they  returned,  taking  away  the  log  at 
his  request  and  casting  it  down  the  cliff.  After 
that  the  food  of  Angelo  wras  thrown  across  the 
chasm  into  the  opening  of  the  cave,  and  to  drink 
he  had  a  small  spring  of  water  trickling  among  the 
274 


IN   THE   ODOUR   OF   SANCTITY 

rocks  a  drop  at  a  time,  and  he  lived  as  a  recluse 
considering  only  how  to  make  a  saintly  end. 

His  thoughts  were  thus  fixed  and  centred  upon 
his  own  great  concern,  to  a  degree  that  made  the 
world  turn  to  nothing  around  him.  Even  the  Fri 
ary  seemed  to  lie  at  an  infinite  distance,  and  the 
prayers  which  he  had  promised  to  offer  for  it  were 
more  in  word  than  in  desire.  There  was  no  warmth 
in  them,  for  all  the  fire  of  his  soul  had  burned  into 
one  thought  which  consumed  him.  Day  and  night 
he  cried,  "O  wicked  life,  let  me  go  into  a  holy 
death!" 

But  he  came  no  nearer  to  his  goal,  nor  could  he 
find  any  assurance  that  he  was  elect  and  chosen 
to  attain  it.  On  the  contrary  his  anxiety  increased 
and  misery  became  his  companion.  For  this  rea 
son:  in  his  dreams  he  dwelt  continually  upon  the 
most  sinful  pleasures  of  his  past  life,  and  they  grew 
upon  him;  but  in  his  waking  hours  he  considered 
and  measured  the  greatness  of  his  penances,  yet 
without  ever  arriving  at  the  certainty  that  they 
balanced  his  offences. 

Now,  you  are  not  to  suppose  that  the  past  life 
275 


IN   THE   ODOUR   OF   SANCTITY 

of  Angelo,  though  vain  and  worldly  and  streaked 
with  evil,  had  been  altogether  woven  of  black 
threads.  For  he  had  been  of  an  open  and  kindly 
heart,  ready  to  share  with  others  in  the  joy  of 
living,  greatly  pleased  to  do  a  good  turn  to  his 
neighbours,  compassionate  and  gentle-natured,  a 
lover  of  music  and  of  little  children.  So  there 
were  many  things  in  his  youth  of  which  he  had  no 
need  to  be  ashamed,  since  they  were  both  innocent 
and  merry,  and  the  white  and  golden  threads  of  a 
pure  and  grateful  happiness  were  not  wanting  in 
the  fabric  of  his  loom. 

But  of  these  he  would  not  think,  being  set  upon 
recalling  only  the  sinful  hours  that  needed  repent 
ance.  And  of  these  he  thought  so  constantly  that 
in  the  visions  of  the  night  they  lived  again,  twining 
their  limbs  about  him  and  pressing  their  burning 
lips  upon  his.  But  when  he  awoke  he  was  filled 
with  terror,  and  fell  to  counting  the  severities  and 
privations  which  he  had  endured  for  an  atonement. 
So  it  came  to  pass  that  he  was  strangely  and  dread 
fully  merry  dreaming,  but  strangely  and  desperately 
sad  waking.  And  between  the  two  he  found  no 
276 


IN   THE   ODOUR   OF   SANCTITY 

peace,  nor  ever  escaped  from  the  trouble  and  an 
guish  of  himself. 

After  a  twelvemonth  or  more  of  this  life,  very 
early  in  the  morning  he  awoke  from  a  hot  dream 
with  horror,  and  groaned  aloud,  "If  I  die,  I  am 
damned." 

"How  so,  little  sheep  of  God,"  said  a  voice  near 
at  hand;  "who  has  led  thee  into  the  wilder 
ness?" 

Fra  Angelo  lifted  his  head  and  looked  at  the 
opening  of  the  cave,  but  there  was  no  one  there. 
Then  he  looked  behind  him,  and  on  both  sides, 
but  he  saw  no  one.  Yet  so  clear  and  certain  was 
the  sound  of  the  voice  that  he  could  not  rest,  but 
went  to  the  entrance  and  thrust  out  his  head. 

On  the  shelf  of  the  rock  in  front  of  the  cave  he 
saw  a  short  and  spare  brother  dressed  in  the  habit 
of  a  friar  minor,  with  a  thin  black  beard,  and  dark 
simple  eyes,  kindled  with  gentle  flames.  In  his 
right  hand  he  held  a  stick  of  wood,  as  it  were  the 
bow  of  a  viol,  and  this  he  drew  across  his  left  arm, 
singing  the  while  in  French  a  hymn  of  joy  for  the 
sun,  his  brother,  and  for  the  wind,  his  companion, 
277 


IN   THE   ODOUR   OF   SANCTITY 

and  for  the  water,  his  sister,  and  for  the  earth,  his 
mother. 

At  this  Fra  Angelo  was  astonished  and  confused, 
for  these  songs  had  not  been  heard  in  the  Friary 
since  many  years,  and  it  seemed  as  if  some  foreign 
brother  must  have  come  from  France  with  strange 
customs.  But  when  he  looked  more  closely  he  saw 
that  the  long  and  delicate  hands  of  the  little  brother 
were  pierced  in  the  palm,  and  his  feet  were  wounded 
as  if  a  nail  had  passed  through  them.  Then  he 
knew  that  he  saw  St.  Francis,  and  he  was  so  ashamed 
and  afraid  that  he  clung  to  the  rocks  and  could  not 
speak. 

Then  the  little  brother  turned  from  looking  out 
upon  the  morning  in  Val  d'Arno  and  looked  at  Fra 
Angelo.  After  a  long  while  he  said,  very  softly, 
"What  doest  thou  here  in  the  cave,  dearest?" 

"Blessed  father,"  stammered  the  recluse,  "I  dwell 
in  solitude,  to  atone  for  my  worldly  life  and  find  a 
holy  death." 

"That  is  for  thyself,"  said  the  little  brother  in 
the  sun;  "but  for  others  what  doest  thou?" 

Angelo  thought  a  moment  and  answered,  hum 
bly,  "I  give  them  an  ensample  of  holiness." 
278 


IN   THE   ODOUR   OF   SANCTITY 

"They  need  more,"  said  the  little  brother  smiling, 
"and  thou  must  give  it." 

"Blessed  father,"  cried  Angelo,  "command  me 
and  I  will  obey  thee,  for  thou  art  in  heaven  and  I 
am  near  to  hell." 

"Listen,  then,  thou  lost  sheep,"  said  the  little 
brother,  "and  I  will  show  thee  the  way.  Climb 
over  the  wall.  Lay  aside  the  breastplate  and  rings 
of  iron — they  hinder  thee.  Come  near  and  sit  be 
side  me.  In  a  certain  city  there  is  a  poor  widow 
whose  child  is  sick  even  unto  death.  Go  unto  her 
with  this  box  of  electuary,  and  give  it  to  the  child 
that  he .  may  recover.  I  command  thee  by  Obe 
dience. 

So  saying  he  laid  in  the  hand  of  Angelo  a  box  of 
olive-wood,  filled  \yith  an  electuary  so  sweet  that 
the  fragrance  of  it  went  through  the  wood.  But 
Angelo  was  confused. 

"How  shall  I  know  the  way,"  said  he,  "when 
I  know  not  the  city?" 

"Stand  up,"  answered  the  little  brother  with  the 
wounded  hands,  "and  close  thine  eyes  firmly.  Now 
turn  round  and  round  as  children  do,  until  I  bid 
thee  stop." 

279 


IN   THE   ODOUR   OF   SANCTITY 

So  Fra  Angelo,  fearing  a  little  because  the  shelf 
of  rock  was  narrow,  shut  tight  his  eyes  and,  stretch 
ing  out  his  arms,  turned  round  and  round  until  he 
was  dizzy.  Then  he  fell  to  the  ground,  and  when 
he  looked  up  the  little  brother  of  the  sun  was  gone. 

But  the  head  of  Fra  Angelo  lay  toward  the  city 
of  Poppi  on  the  other  side  of  the  valley,  so  he  knew 
that  this  was  the  way,  and  he  wrent  down  from  the 
mountain. 

As  he  went,  his  bodily  weakness  departed  and 
the  pains  of  his  worn  flesh  left  him,  and  he  rejoiced 
in  the  brightness  of  the  world.  The  linnets  and 
blackbirds  that  sang  in  the  thickets  were  the  children 
of  those  that  had  been  brothers  of  the  air  to  St. 
Francis,  and  the  larks  that  bubbled  up  from  the 
fields  wore  the  same  sad-coloured  garments  and 
chanted  the  same  joyous  music  that  he  had  com 
mended.  The  primroses  and  the  violets  and  the 
cyclamens  had  not  forgotten  to  bloom  because  of 
sin,  and  the  pure  incense  of  their  breath  wrent  forth 
unto  gladness. 

So  Fra  Angelo  made  his  journey  with  a  light 
heart,  quickly,  and  came  to  the  city  of  Poppi. 
280 


IN   THE   ODOUR   OF   SANCTITY 

There  he  found  the  poor  widow  with  her  child  sick 
unto  death,  and  he  gave  them  the  olive-wood  box. 
The  child  took  the  electuary  eagerly,  for  it  was 
pleasant  to  the  taste,  and  it  did  him  good  more 
than  if  it  had  been  bitter.  So  presently  the  fever 
left  him,  and  the  mother  rejoiced  and  blessed  St. 
Francis  and  Fra  Angelo.  And  he  said,  "I  must 
be  going." 

Now,  as  he  went  and  returned  toward  La  Verna, 
he  passed  through  a  village,  and  in  the  field  at  the 
side  of  it  he  saw  many  children  quarrelling. 

"Why  do  you  fight,"  said  Angelo,  laying  hands 
on  two  of  them,  "when  you  might  be  playing?" 

"Because  we  know  not  what  to  play,"  they  an 
swered;  and  some  shouted  one  thing  and  some 
another. 

"Let  the  older  ones  play  at  Fox  and  Geese," 
said  Angelo;  "and  look,  here  is  a  plank!  We  will 
put  it  over  this  great  stone  and  I  will  play  at  see 
saw  with  the  little  ones." 

Then  the  children  all  laughed  when  they  saw  a 
friar  playing  at  seesaw;  but  he  went  up  and  down 
merrily,  and  they  were  all  glad  together.  After  a 
281 


IN   THE   ODOUR   OF   SANCTITY 

while  they  grew  weary  of  the  games,  and  Angelo 
asked  what  they  would  do  next. 

"Dance,"  cried  the  children;    "dance  and  sing!" 

"But  where  is  the  music?"  said  Angelo. 

So  one  of  the  boys  ran  away  to  a  house  in  the 
village  and  came  back  presently  with  an  old  viol 
and  a  bow.  Angelo  fingered  the  instrument,  and 
tuned  it,  for  he  had  been  a  skilful  musician. 

"Now  I  will  teach  you,"  said  he,  "a  very  sweet 
music  that  I  heard  this  morning.  And  do  you  all 
sing  as  I  teach  you,  and  between  the  songs  take 
hands  and  dance  around." 

Then  he  sat  down  upon  a  grassy  hillock,  with 
the  children  in  a  circle  about  him,  and  he  taught 
them  the  songs  that  were  sung  by  the  little  brother 
of  the  sun  and  of  the  wind  and  of  the  water  and 
of  the  birds — even  by  that  minstrel  of  God  who 
came  to  the  cave  with  the  morning  light.  Between 
the  verses  the  children,  holding  hands,  danced  in 
a  ring  around  Fra  Angelo,  while  he  played  upon 
the  old  viol. 

As  he  played  thus,  he  was  aware  of  a  hand  upon  his 
shoulder,  and  supposed  it  to  be  one  of  the  children. 
282 


IN   THE   ODOUR   OF   SANCTITY 

"Go  back,"  he  said,  "go  back  to  your  place, 
dearest  naughty  one;  the  song  is  not  finished." 

"It  is  finished,"  said  a  voice  behind  him.  "This 
is  the  right  ending  of  the  song." 

And  Angelo,  looking  up  in  amazement,  saw  the 
face  of  an  angel,  and  the  bow  dropped  from  his 
fingers. 

When  the  music  ceased,  the  children  broke  their 
ring  and  ran  to  Angelo  where  he  lay  upon  the  grass. 
They  wondered  to  see  him  so  still  and  pale,  yet 
because  his  face  was  smiling  they  were  not  afraid. 

"He  is  weary,"  they  cried;  "the  good  friar  has 
fallen  asleep — perhaps  he  has  fainted.  Let  us  run 
and  call  help  for  him." 

But  they  did  not  understand  that  the  messenger 
of  Holy  Death  had  passed  among  them  and  called 
Angelo  in  the  odour  of  sanctity. 


283 


THE    SAD    SHEPHERD 


THE    SAD    SHEPHERD 


DARKNESS 

of  the  Valley  of  Gardens,  where  a  film  of 
new-fallen  snow  lay  smooth  as  feathers  on  the 
breast  of  a  dove,  the  ancient  Pools  of  Solomon 
looked  up  into  the  night  sky  with  dark,  tranquil 
eyes,  wide-open  and  passive,  reflecting  the  crisp 
stars  and  the  small,  round  moon.  The  full  springs, 
overflowing  on  the  hill-side,  melted  their  way 
through  the  field  of  white  in  winding  channels,  and 
along  their  course  the  grass  was  green  even  in  the 
dead  of  winter. 

But  the  sad  shepherd  walked  far  above  the 
friendly  valley,  in  a  region  where  ridges  of  gray 
rock  welted  and  scarred  the  back  of  the  earth,  like 
wounds  of  half-forgotten  strife  and  battles  long  ago. 
The  solitude  was  forbidding  and  disquieting;  the 
keen  air  that  searched  the  wanderer  had  no  pity  in 
287 


THE   SAD   SHEPHERD 

it;  and  the  myriad  glances  of  the  night  were  curi 
ously  cold. 

His  flock  straggled  after  him.  The  sheep,  weather 
beaten  and  dejected,  followed  the  path  with  low 
heads  nodding  from  side  to  side,  as  if  they  had  trav 
elled  far  and  found  little  pasture.  The  black,  lop- 
eared  goats  leaped  upon  the  rocks,  restless  and 
ravenous,  tearing  down  the  tender  branches  and 
leaves  of  the  dwarf  oaks  and  wild  olives.  They 
reared  up  against  the  twisted  trunks  and  crawled 
and  scrambled  among  the  boughs.  It  was  like  a 
company  of  gray  downcast  friends  and  a  troop  of 
merry  little  black  devils  following  the  sad  shepherd 
afar  off. 

He  walked  looking  on  the  ground,  paying  small 
heed  to  them.  Now  and  again,  when  the  sound  of 
pattering  feet  and  panting  breath  and  the  rustling 
and  rending  among  the  copses  fell  too  far  behind, 
he  drew  out  his  shepherd's  pipe  and  blew  a  strain 
of  music,  shrill  and  plaintive,  quavering  and  lament 
ing  through  the  hollow  night.  He  waited  while 
the  troops  of  gray  and  black  scuffled  and  bounded 
and  trotted  near  to  him.  Then  he  dropped  the 
288 


THE   SAD  SHEPHERD 

pipe  into  its  place  again  and  strode  forward,  look 
ing  on  the  ground. 

The  fitful,  shivery  wind  that  rasped  the  hill-top, 
fluttered  the  rags  of  his  long  mantle  of  Tyrian  blue, 
torn  by  thorns  and  stained  by  travel.  The  rich 
tunic  of  striped  silk  beneath  it  was  worn  thin,  and 
the  girdle  about  his  loins  had  lost  all  its  ornaments 
of  silver  and  jewels.  His  curling  hair  hung  down 
dishevelled  under  a  turban  of  fine  linen,  in  which 
the  gilt  threads  were  frayed  and  tarnished;  and  his 
shoes  of  soft  leather  were  broken  by  the  road.  On 
his  brown  fingers  the  places  of  the  vanished  rings 
were  still  marked  in  white  skin.  He  carried  not 
the  long  staff  nor  the  heavy  nail-studded  rod  of  the 
shepherd,  but  a  slender  stick  of  carved  cedar  bat 
tered  and  scratched  by  hard  usage,  and  the  handle, 
which  must  once  have  been  of  precious  metal,  was 
missing. 

He  was  a  strange  figure  for  that  lonely  place  and 
that  humble  occupation — a  branch  of  faded  beauty 
from  some  royal  garden  tossed  by  rude  winds  into 
the  wilderness — a  pleasure  craft  adrift,  buffeted  and 
broken,  on  rough  seas. 

289 


THE  SAD   SHEPHERD 

But  he  seemed  to  have  passed  beyond  caring. 
His  young  face  was  as  frayed  and  threadbare  as  his 
garments.  The  splendour  of  the  moonlight  flood 
ing  the  wild  world  meant  as  little  to  him  as  the  hard 
ness  of  the  rugged  track  which  he  followed.  He 
wrapped  his  tattered  mantle  closer  around  him,  and 
strode  ahead,  looking  on  the  ground. 

As  the  path  dropped  from  the  summit  of  the 
ridge  toward  the  Valley  of  Mills  and  passed  among 
huge  broken  rocks,  three  men  sprang  at  him  from 
the  shadows.  He  lifted  his  stick,  but  let  it  fall 
again,  and  a  strange  ghost  of  a  smile  twisted  his 
face  as  they  gripped  him  and  threw  him  down. 

"You  are  rough  beggars,"  he  said.  "Say  what 
you  want,  you  are  welcome  to  it." 

"Your  money,  dog  of  a  courtier,"  they  muttered 
fiercely;  "give  us  your  golden  collar,  Herod's 
hound,  quick,  or  you  die!" 

"The  quicker  the  better,"  he  answered,  closing 
his  eyes. 

The  bewildered  flock  of  sheep  and  goats,  gathered 
in  a  silent  ring,  stood  at  gaze  while  the  robbers 
fumbled  over  their  master. 
290 


THE  SAD  SHEPHERD 

"This  is  a  stray  dog,"  said  one,  "he  has  lost  his 
collar,  there  is  not  even  the  price  of  a  mouthful  of 
wine  on  him.  Shall  we  kill  him  and  leave  him  for 
the  vultures?" 

"What  have  the  vultures  done  for  us,"  said 
another,  "that  we  should  feed  them?  Let  us  take 
his  cloak  and  drive  off  his  flock,  and  leave  him  to 
die  in  his  own  time." 

With  a  kick  and  a  curse  they  left  him.  He 
opened  his  eyes  and  lay  quiet  for  a  moment,  with 
his  twisted  smile,  watching  the  stars. 

"You  creep  like  snails,"  he  said.  "I  thought 
you  had  marked  my  time  to-night.  But  not  even 
that  is  given  to  me  for  nothing.  I  must  pay  for 
all,  it  seems." 

Far  away,  slowly  scattering  and  receding,  he 
heard  the  rustling  and  bleating  of  his  frightened 
flock  as  the  robbers,  running  and  shouting,  tried  to 
drive  them  over  the  hills.  Then  he  stood  up  and 
took  the  shepherd's  pipe  from  the  breast  of  his 
tunic.  He  blew  again  that  plaintive,  piercing  air, 
sounding  it  out  over  the  ridges  and  distant  thickets. 
It  seemed  to  have  neither  beginning  nor  end;  a 
291 


THE  SAD  SHEPHERD 

melancholy,  pleading  tune  that  searched  forever  after 
something  lost. 

While  he  played,  the  sheep  and  the  goats,  slip 
ping  away  from  their  captors  by  roundabout  ways, 
hiding  behind  the  laurel  bushes,  following  the  dark 
gullies,  leaping  down  the  broken  cliffs,  came  cir 
cling  back  to  him,  one  after  another;  and  as  they 
came,  he  interrupted  his  playing,  now  and  then,  to 
call  them  by  name. 

When  they  were  nearly  all  assembled,  he  went 
down  swiftly  toward  the  lower  valley,  and  they 
followed  him,  panting.  At  the  last  crook  of  the 
path  on  the  steep  hillside  a  straggler  came  after 
him  along  the  cliff.  He  looked  up  and  saw  it  out 
lined  against  the  sky.  Then  he  saw  it  leap,  and 
slip,  and  fall  beyond  the  path  into  a  deep  cleft. 

"Little  fool,"  he  said,  "fortune  is  kind  to  you! 
You  have  escaped  from  the  big  trap  of  life.  What? 
You  are  crying  for  help?  You  are  still  in  the  trap? 
Then  I  must  go  down  to  you,  little  fool,  for  I  am  a 
fool  too.  But  why  I  must  do  it,  I  know  no  more 
than  you  know." 

He  lowered  himself  quickly  and  perilously  into 
292 


THE  SAD  SHEPHERD 

the  cleft,  and  found  the  creature  with  its  leg  broken 
and  bleeding.  It  was  not  a  sheep  but  a  young  goat. 
He  had  no  cloak  to  wrap  it  in,  but  he  took  off  his 
turban  and  unrolled  it,  and  bound  it  around  the 
trembling  animal.  Then  he  climbed  back  to  the 
path  and  strode  on  at  the  head  of  his  flock,  carry 
ing  the  little  black  kid  in  his  arms. 

There  were  houses  in  the  Valley  of  the  Mills; 
and  in  some  of  them  lights  were  burning;  and  the 
drone  of  the  mill-stones,  where  the  women  were 
still  grinding,  came  out  into  the  night  like  the  hum 
ming  of  drowsy  bees.  As  the  women  heard  the 
pattering  and  bleating  of  the  flock,  they  wondered 
who  was  passing  so  late.  One  of  them,  in  a  house 
where  there  was  no  mill  but  many  lights,  came  to 
the  door  and  looked  out  laughing,  her  face  and 
bosom  bare. 

But  the  sad  shepherd  did  not  stay.  His  long 
shadow  and  the  confused  mass  of  lesser  shadows 
behind  him  drifted  down  the  white  moonlight,  past 
the  yellow  bars  of  lamplight  that  gleamed  from  the 
doorways.  It  seemed  as  if  he  were  bound  to  go 
somewhere  and  would  not  delay. 
293 


THE  SAD   SHEPHERD 

Yet  with  all  his  haste  to  be  gone,  it  was  plain 
that  he  thought  little  of  where  he  was  going.  For 
when  he  came  to  the  foot  of  the  valley,  where  the 
paths  divided,  he  stood  between  them  staring  va 
cantly,  without  a  desire  to  turn  him  this  way  or 
that.  The  imperative  of  choice  halted  him  like  a 
barrier.  The  balance  of  his  mind  hung  even  because 
both  scales  were  empty.  He  could  act,  he  could  go, 
for  his  strength  was  untouched;  but  he  could  not 
choose,  for  his  will  was  broken  within  him. 

The  path  to  the  left  went  up  toward  the  little 
town  of  Bethlehem,  with  huddled  roofs  and  walls 
in  silhouette  along  the  double-crested  hill.  It  was 
dark  and  forbidding  as  a  closed  fortress.  The  sad 
shepherd  looked  at  it  with  indifferent  eyes;  there 
was  nothing  there  to  draw  him. 

The  path  to  the  right  wound  through  rock-strewn 
valleys  toward  the  Dead  Sea.  But  rising  out  of 
that  crumpled  wilderness,  a  mile  or  two  away,  the 
smooth  white  ribbon  of  a  chariot-road  lay  upon  the 
flank  of  a  cone-shaped  mountain  and  curled  in  loops 
toward  its  peak.  There  the  great  cone  was  cut 
squarely  off,  and  the  levelled  summit  was  capped  by 
294 


THE  SAD   SHEPHERD 

a  palace  of  marble,  with  round  towers  at  the  cor 
ners  and  flaring  beacons  along  the  walls;  and  the 
glow  of  an  immense  fire,  hidden  in  the  central 
court -yard,  painted  a  false  dawn  in  the  eastern  sky. 
All  down  the  clean-cut  mountain  slopes,  on  terraces 
and  blind  arcades,  the  lights  flashed  from  lesser 
pavilions  and  pleasure-houses. 

It  was  the  secret  orchard  of  Herod  and  his  friends, 
their  trysting-place  with  the  spirits  of  mirth  and 
madness.  They  called  it  the  Mountain  of  the 
Little  Paradise.  Rich  gardens  were  there;  and  the 
cool  water  from  the  Pools  of  Solomon  plashed  in 
the  fountains;  and  trees  of  the  knowledge  of  good 
and  evil  fruited  blood-red  and  ivory-white  above 
them;  and  smooth,  curving,  glistening  shapes,  whis 
pering  softly  of  pleasure,  lay  among  the  flowers  and 
glided  behind  the  trees.  All  this  was  now  hidden 
in  the  dark.  Only  the  strange  bulk  of  the  moun 
tain,  a  sharp  black  pyramid  girdled  and  crowned 
with  fire,  loomed  across  the  night — a  mountain  once 
seen  never  to  be  forgotten. 

The  sad  shepherd  remembered  it  well.  He  looked 
at  it  with  the  eyes  of  a  child  who  has  been  in  hell. 

295 


THE  SAD  SHEPHERD 

It  burned  him  from  afar.  Turning  neither  to  the 
right  nor  to  the  left,  he  walked  without  a  path 
straight  out  upon  the  plain  of  Bethlehem,  still  whi 
tened  in  the  hollows  and  on  the  sheltered  side  of  its 
rounded  hillocks  by  the  veil  of  snow. 

He  faced  a  wide  and  empty  world.  To  the  west 
in  sleeping  Bethlehem,  to  the  east  in  flaring  Hero- 
dium,  the  life  of  man  was  infinitely  far  away  from 
him.  Even  the  stars  seemed  to  withdraw  them 
selves  against  the  blue-black  of  the  sky.  They 
diminished  and  receded  till  they  were  like  pin- 
holes  in  the  vault  above  him.  The  moon  in  mid- 
heaven  shrank  into  a  bit  of  burnished  silver,  hard 
and  glittering,  immeasurably  remote.  The  ragged, 
inhospitable  ridges  of  Tekoa  lay  stretched  in  mortal 
slumber  along  the  horizon,  and  between  them  he 
caught  a  glimpse  of  the  sunken  Lake  of  Death, 
darkly  gleaming  in  its  deep  bed.  There  was  no 
movement,  no  sound,  on  the  plain  where  he  walked, 
except  the  soft-padding  feet  of  his  dumb,  obsequious 
flock. 

He  felt  an  endless  isolation  strike  cold  to  his 
heart,  against  which  he  held  the  limp  body  of  the 
296 


THE  SAD   SHEPHERD 

wounded  kid,  wondering  the  while,  with  a  half- 
contempt  for  his  own  foolishness,  why  he  took  such 
trouble  to  save  a  tiny  scrap  of  the  worthless  tissue 
which  is  called  life. 

Even  when  a  man  does  not  know  or  care  where 
he  is  going,  if  he  steps  onward  he  will  get  there.  In 
an  hour  or  more  of  walking  over  the  plain  the  sad 
shepherd  came  to  a  sheep-fold  of  grey  stones  with 
a  rude  tower  beside  it.  The  fold  was  full  of  sheep, 
and  at  the  foot  of  the  tower  a  little  fire  of  thorns 
was  burning,  around  which  four  shepherds  were 
crouching,  wrapped  in  their  thick  woollen  cloaks. 

As  the  stranger  approached  they  looked  up,  and 
one  of  them  rose  quickly  to  his  feet,  grasping  his 
knotted  club.  But  when  they  saw  the  flock  that 
followed  the  sad  shepherd,  they  stared  at  each 
other  and  said:  "It  is  one  of  us,  a  keeper  of  sheep. 
But  how  comes  he  here  in  this  raiment?  It  is  what 
men  wear  in  kings'  houses." 

"No,"  said  the  one  who  was  standing,  "it  is  what 
they  wear  when  they  have  been  thrown  out  of  them. 
Look  at  the  rags.  He  may  be  a  thief  and  a  robber 
with  his  stolen  flock." 

297 


THE  SAD  SHEPHERD 

"Salute  him  when  he  comes  near,"  said  the  old 
est  shepherd.  "Are  we  not  four  to  one?  We  have 
nothing  to  fear  from  a  ragged  traveller.  Speak  him 
fair.  It  is  the  will  of  God — and  it  costs  nothing." 

"Peace  be  with  you,  brother,"  cried  the  young 
est  shepherd;  "may  your  mother  and  father  be 
blessed." 

"May  your  heart  be  enlarged,"  the  stranger 
answered,  "and  may  all  your  families  be  more 
blessed  than  mine,  for  I  have  none." 

"A  homeless  man,"  said  the  old  shepherd,  "has 
either  been  robbed  by  his  fellows,  or  punished  by 
God." 

"I  do  not  know  which  it  was,"  answered  the 
stranger;  "the  end  is  the  same,  as  you  see." 

"By  your  speech  you  come  from  Galilee.  Where 
are  you  going?  What  are  you  seeking  here?" 

"I  was  going  nowhere,  my  masters;  but  it  was  cold 
on  the  way  there,  and  my  feet  turned  to  your  fire." 

"Come  then,  if  you  are  a  peaceable  man,  and 
warm  your  feet  with   us.     Heat   is   a   good   gift; 
divide  it  and  it  is  not  less.     But  you  shall  have 
bread  and  salt  too,  if  you  will." 
298 


THE  SAD  SHEPHERD 

"May  your  hospitality  enrich  you.  I  am  your 
unworthy  guest.  But  my  flock?" 

"Let  your  flock  shelter  by  the  south  wall  of  the 
fold:  there  is  good  picking  there  and  no  wind. 
Come  you  and  sit  with  us." 

So  they  all  sat  down  by  the  fire;  and  the  sad 
shepherd  ate  of  their  bread,  but  sparingly,  like  a 
man  to  whom  hunger  brings  a  need  but  no  joy  in 
the  satisfying  of  it;  and  the  others  were  silent  for  a 
proper  time,  out  of  courtesy.  Then  the  oldest 
shepherd  spoke: 

"My  name  is  Zadok  the  son  of  Eliezer,  of  Beth 
lehem.  I  am  the  chief  shepherd  of  the  flocks  of 
the  Temple,  which  are  before  you  in  the  fold. 
These  are  my  sister's  sons,  Jotham,  and  Shama,  and 
Nathan:  their  father  Elkanah  is  dead;  and  but  for 
these  I  am  a  childless  man." 

"My  name,"  replied  the  stranger,  "is  Ammiel  the 
son  of  Jochanan,  of  the  city  of  Bethsaida,  by  the 
Sea  of  Galilee,  and  I  am  a  fatherless  man." 

"It  is  better  to  be  childless  than  fatherless,"  said 
Zadok,  "yet  it  is  the  will  of  God  that  children 
should  bury  their  fathers.  When  did  the  blessed 
Jochanan  die?" 

299 


THE   SAD   SHEPHERD 

"I  know  not  whether  he  be  dead  or  alive.  It  is 
three  years  since  I  looked  upon  his  face  or  had 
word  of  him." 

"You  are  an  exile,  then?  he  has  cast  you  off?" 

"It  was  the  other  way,"  said  Ammiel,  looking  on 
the  ground. 

At  this  the  shepherd  Shama,  who  had  listened 
with  doubt  in  his  face,  started  up  in  anger.  "Pig 
of  a  Galilean,"  he  cried,  "despiser  of  parents! 
breaker  of  the  law!  When  I  saw  you  coming  I 
knew  you  for  something  vile.  Why  do  you  darken 
the  night  for  us  with  your  presence?  You  have  re 
viled  him  who  begot  you.  Away,  or  we  stone  you ! " 

Ammiel  did  not  answer  or  move.  The  twisted 
smile  passed  over  his  face  again  as  he  waited  to 
know  the  shepherds'  will  with  him,  even  as  he  had 
waited  for  the  robbers.  But  Zadok  lifted  his  hand. 

"Not  so  hasty,  Shama-ben-Elkanah.  You  also 
break  the  law  by  judging  a  man  unheard.  The 
rabbis  have  told  us  that  there  is  a  tradition  of  the 
elders — a  rule  as  holy  as  the  law  itself — that  a  man 
may  deny  his  father  in  a  certain  way  without  sin. 
It  is  a  strange  rule,  and  it  must  be  very  holy  or  it 
would  not  be  so  strange.  But  this  is  the  teaching 
300 


THE  SAD   SHEPHERD 

of  the  elders:  a  son  may  say  of  anything  for  which 
his  father  asks  him — a  sheep,  or  a  measure  of  corn, 
or  a  field,  or  a  purse  of  silver — 'it  is  Corban,  a  gift 
that  I  have  vowed  unto  the  Lord';  and  so  his  father 
shall  have  no  more  claim  upon  him.  Have  you 
said  'Corban'  to  your  father,  Ammiel-ben-Jochanan? 
Have  you  made  a  vow  unto  the  Lord?" 

"I  have  said  'Corban,'"  answered  Ammiel,  lift 
ing  his  face,  still  shadowed  by  that  strange  smile, 
"but  it  was  not  the  Lord  who  heard  my  vow." 

"Tell  us  what  you  have  done,"  said  the  old  man 
sternly,  "for  we  will  neither  judge  you,  nor  shelter 
you,  unless  we  hear  your  story." 

"There  is  nothing  in  it,"  replied  Ammiel  indiffer 
ently.  "  It  is  an  old  story.  But  if  you  are  curious 
you  shall  hear  it.  Afterward  you  shall  deal  with 
me  as  you  will." 

So  the  shepherds,  wrapped  in  their  warm  cloaks, 
sat  listening  with  grave  faces  and  watchful,  unsearch 
able  eyes,  while  Ammiel  in  his  tattered  silk  sat  by 
the  sinking  fire  of  thorns  and  told  his  tale  with  a 
voice  that  had  no  room  for  hope  or  fear — a  cool, 
dead  voice  that  spoke  only  of  things  ended. 
301 


THE  SAD   SHEPHERD 
II 

NIGHTFIRE 

"!N  my  father's  house  I  was  the  second  son. 
My  brother  was  honoured  and  trusted  in  all  things. 
He  was  a  prudent  man  and  profitable  to  the  house 
hold.  All  that  he  counselled  was  done,  all  that  he 
wished  he  had.  My  place  was  a  narrow  one.  There 
was  neither  honour  nor  joy  in  it,  for  it  was  filled 
with  daily  tasks  and  rebukes.  No  one  cared  for 
me.  My  mother  sometimes  wept  when  I  was  re 
buked.  Perhaps  she  was  disappointed  in  me.  But 
she  had  no  power  to  make  things  better.  I  felt 
that  I  was  a  beast  of  burden,  fed  only  in  order  that 
I  might  be  useful;  and  the  dull  life  irked  me  like 
an  ill-fitting  harness.  There  was  nothing  in  it. 

"I  went  to  my  father  and  claimed  my  share  of 
the  inheritance.  He  was  rich.  He  gave  it  to  me. 
It  did  not  impoverish  him  and  it  made  me  free.  I 
said  to  him  'Corban,'  and  shook  the  dust  of  Beth- 
saida  from  my  feet. 

"I  went  out  to  look  for  mirth  and  love  and  joy 
and  all  that  is  pleasant  to  the  eyes  and  sweet  to 
302 


THE  SAD  SHEPHERD 

the  taste.  If  a  god  made  me,  thought  I,  he  made 
me  to  live,  and  the  pride  of  life  was  strong  in  my 
heart  and  in  my  flesh.  My  vow  was  offered  to  that 
well-known  god.  I  served  him  in  Jerusalem,  in 
Alexandria,  in  Rome,  for  his  altars  are  everywhere 
and  men  worship  him  openly  or  in  secret. 

"My  money  and  youth  made  me  welcome  to  his 
followers,  and  I  spent  them  both  freely  as  if  they 
could  never  come  to  an  end.  I  clothed  myself  in 
purple  and  fine  linen  and  fared  sumptuously  every 
day.  The  wine  of  Cyprus  and  the  dishes  of  Egypt 
and  Syria  were  on  my  table.  My  dwelling  was 
crowded  with  merry  guests.  They  came  for  what 
I  gave  them.  Their  faces  were  hungry  and  their 
soft  touch  was  like  the  clinging  of  leeches.  To 
them  I  was  nothing  but  money  and  youth;  no 
longer  a  beast  of  burden — a  beast  of  pleasure. 
There  was  nothing  in  it. 

"From  the  richest  fare  my  heart  went  away 
empty,  and  after  the  wildest  banquet  my  soul  fell 
drunk  and  solitary  into  sleep. 

"Then  I  thought,  Power  is  better  than  pleasure. 
If  a  man  will  feast  and  revel  let  him  do  it  with  the 
303 


THE  SAD  SHEPHERD 

great.  They  will  favour  him  and  raise  him  up  for 
the  service  that  he  renders  them.  He  will  obtain 
place  and  authority  in  the  world  and  gain  many 
friends.  So  I  joined  myself  to  Herod." 

When  the  sad  shepherd  spoke  this  name  his  lis 
teners  drew  back  from  him  as  if  it  were  a  defilement 
to  hear  it.  They  spat  upon  the  ground  and  cursed 
the  Idumean  who  called  himself  their  king. 

"A  slave!"  Jotham  cried,  "a  bloody  tyrant  and 
a  slave  from  Edom !  A  fox,  a  vile  beast  who  devours 
his  own  children!  God  burn  him  in  Gehenna." 

The  old  Zadok  picked  up  a  stone  and  threw  it 
into  the  darkness,  saying  slowly,  "I  cast  this  stone 
on  the  grave  of  the  Idumean,  the  blasphemer,  the 
defiler  of  the  Temple!  God  send  us  soon  the  De 
liverer,  the  Promised  One,  the  true  King  of  Israel!" 
Ammiel  made  no  sign,  but  went  on  with  his  story. 

"Herod  used  me  well — for  his  own  purpose. 
He  welcomed  me  to  his  palace  and  his  table,  and 
gave  me  a  place  among  his  favourites.  He  was  so 
much  my  friend  that  he  borrowed  my  money. 
There  were  many  of  the  nobles  of  Jerusalem  with 
him,  Sadducees,  and  proselytes  from  Rome  and 
304 


THE  SAD   SHEPHERD 

Asia,  and  women  from  everywhere.  The  law  of 
Israel  was  observed  in  the  open  court,  when  the 
people  were  watching.  But  in  the  secret  feasts 
there  was  no  law  but  the  will  of  Herod,  and  many 
deities  were  served  but  no  god  was  worshipped. 
There  the  captains  and  the  princes  of  Rome  con 
sorted  with  the  high-priest  and  his  sons  by  night; 
and  there  was  much  coming  and  going  by  hidden 
ways.  Everybody  was  a  borrower  or  a  lender,  a 
buyer  or  a  seller  of  favours.  It  was  a  house  of 
diligent  madness.  There  was  nothing  in  it. 

"  In  the  midst  of  this  whirling  life  a  great  need  of 
love  came  upon  me  and  I  wished  to  hold  some  one 
in  my  inmost  heart. 

"At  a  certain  place  in  the  city,  within  closed 
doors,  I  saw  a  young  slave-girl  dancing.  She  was 
about  fifteen  years  old,  thin  and  supple;  she  danced 
like  a  reed  in  the  wind;  but  her  eyes  were  weary  as 
death,  and  her  white  body  was  marked  with  bruises. 
She  stumbled,  and  the  men  laughed  at  her.  She 
fell,  and  her  mistress  beat  her,  crying  out  that  she 
would  fain  be  rid  of  such  a  heavy-footed  slave.  I 
paid  the  price  and  took  her  to  my  dwelling. 
305 


THE  SAD  SHEPHERD 

"Her  name  was  Tamar.  She  was  a  daughter  of 
Lebanon.  I  robed  her  in  silk  and  broidered  linen. 
I  nourished  her  with  tender  care  so  that  beauty 
came  upon  her  like  the  blossoming  of  an  almond 
tree;  she  was  a  garden  enclosed,  breathing  spices. 
Her  eyes  were  like  doves  behind  her  veil,  her  lips 
were  a  thread  of  scarlet,  her  neck  was  a  tower  of 
ivory,  and  her  breasts  were  as  two  fawns  which 
feed  among  the  lilies.  She  was  whiter  than  milk, 
and  more  rosy  than  the  flower  of  the  peach,  and  her 
dancing  was  like  the  flight  of  a  bird  among  the 
branches.  So  I  loved  her. 

"She  lay  in  my  bosom  as  a  clear  stone  that  one 
has  bought  and  polished  and  set  in  fine  gold  at  the 
end  of  a  golden  chain.  Never  was  she  glad  at  my 
coming,  or  sorry  at  my  going.  Never  did  she  give 
me  anything  except  what  I  took  from  her.  There 
was  nothing  in  it. 

"Now  whether  Herod  knew  of  the  jewel  that  I 
kept  in  my  dwelling  I  cannot  tell.  It  was  sure 
that  he  had  his  spies  in  all  the  city,  and  himself 
walked  the  streets  by  night  in  a  disguise.  On  a 
certain  day  he  sent  for  me,  and  had  me  into  his 
306 


THE  SAD  SHEPHERD 

secret  chamber,  professing  great  love  toward  me 
and  more  confidence  than  in  any  man  that  lived. 
So  I  must  go  to  Rome  for  him,  bearing  a  sealed 
letter  and  a  private  message  to  Caesar.  All  my 
goods  would  be  left  safely  in  the  hands  of  the  king, 
my  friend,  who  would  reward  me  double.  There 
was  a  certain  place  of  high  authority  at  Jerusalem 
which  Caesar  would  gladly  bestow  on  a  Jew  who 
had  done  him  a  service.  This  mission  would  com 
mend  me  to  him.  It  was  a  great  occasion,  suited 
to  my  powers.  Thus  Herod  fed  me  with  fair 
promises,  and  I  ran  his  errand.  There  was  nothing 
in  it. 

"I  stood  before  Caesar  and  gave  him  the  letter. 
He  read  it  and  laughed,  saying  that  a  prince  with  an 
incurable  hunger  is  a  servant  of  value  to  an  em 
peror.  Then  he  asked  me  if  there  was  nothing 
sent  with  the  letter.  I  answered  that  there  was  no 
gift,  but  a  message  for  his  private  ear.  He  drew 
me  aside  and  I  told  him  that  Herod  begged  earn 
estly  that  his  dear  son,  Antipater,  might  be  sent 
back  in  haste  from  Rome  to  Palestine,  for  the  king 
had  great  need  of  him. 

307 


THE  SAD  SHEPHERD 

"At  this  Caesar  laughed  again.  'To  bury  him,  I 
suppose,'  said  he,  'with  his  brothers,  Alexander  and 
Aristobulus!  Truly,  it  is  better  to  be  Herod's 
swine  than  his  son !  Tell  the  old  fox  he  may  catch 
his  own  prey.'  With  this  he  turned  from  me  and  I 
withdrew  unrewarded,  to  make  my  way  back,  as 
best  I  could  with  an  empty  purse,  to  Palestine.  I 
had  seen  the  Lord  of  the  World.  There  was  noth 
ing  in  it. 

"Selling  my  rings  and  bracelets  I  got  passage  in 
a  trading  ship  for  Joppa.  There  I  heard  that  the 
king  was  not  in  Jerusalem,  at  his  Palace  of  the 
Upper  City,  but  had  gone  with  his  friends  to  make 
merry  for  a  month  on  the  Mountain  of  the  Little 
Paradise.  On  that  hill-top  over  against  us,  where 
the  lights  are  flaring  to-night,  in  the  banquet-hall 
where  couches  are  spread  for  a  hundred  guests,  I 
found  Herod." 

The  listening  shepherds  spat  upon  the  ground 
again,  and  Jotham  muttered,  "May  the  worms  that 
devour  his  flesh  never  die!"  But  Zadok  whispered, 
"We  wait  for  the  Lord's  salvation  to  come  out  of 
Zion."  And  the  sad  shepherd,  looking  with  fixed 
308 


THE   SAD  SHEPHERD 

eyes  at  the  firelit  mountain  far  away,  continued  his 
story : 

"The  king  lay  on  his  ivory  couch,  and  the  sweat 
of  his  disease  was  heavy  upon  him,  for  he  was  old, 
and  his  flesh  was  corrupted.  But  his  hair  and  his 
beard  were  dyed  and  perfumed  and  there  was  a 
wreath  of  roses  on  his  head.  The  hall  was  full  of 
nobles  and  great  men,  the  sons  of  the  high-priest 
were  there,  and  the  servants  poured  their  wine  in 
cups  of  gold.  There  was  a  sound  of  soft  music; 
and  all  the  men  were  watching  a  girl  who  danced 
in  the  middle  of  the  hall;  and  the  eyes  of  Herod 
were  fiery,  like  the  eyes  of  a  fox. 

"The  dancer  was  Tamar.  She  glistened  like  the 
snow  on  Lebanon,  and  the  redness  of  her  was  rud 
dier  than  a  pomegranate,  and  her  dancing  was  like 
the  coiling  of  white  serpents.  When  the  dance  was 
ended  her  attendants  threw  a  veil  of  gauze  over  her 
and  she  lay  among  her  cushions,  half  covered  with 
flowers,  at  the  feet  of  the  king. 

"Through    the    sound    of    clapping    hands    and 

shouting,  two  slaves  led  me  behind  the  couch  of 

Herod.     His  eyes  narrowed  as  they  fell  upon  me. 

I  told  him  the  message  of  Caesar,  making  it  soft,  as 

309 


THE  SAD  SHEPHERD 

if  it  were  a  word  that  suffered  him  to  catch  his 
prey.  He  stroked  his  beard  and  his  look  fell 
on  Tamar.  'I  have  caught  it,'  he  murmured; 
'by  all  the  gods,  I  have  always  caught  it.  And 
my  dear  son,  Antipater,  is  coming  home  of  his  own 
will.  I  have  lured  him,  he  is  mine.' 

"Then  a  look  of  madness  crossed  his  face  and  he 
sprang  up,  with  frothing  lips,  and  struck  at  me. 
'  What  is  this,'  he  cried,  '  a  spy,  a  servant  of  my  false 
son,  a  traitor  in  my  banquet-hall!  Who  are  you?' 
I  knelt  before  him,  protesting  that  he  must  know 
me;  that  I  was  his  friend,  his  messenger;  that  I 
had  left  all  my  goods  in  his  hands;  that  the  girl 
who  had  danced  for  him  was  mine.  At  this  his 
face  changed  again  and  he  fell  back  on  his  couch, 
shaken  with  horrible  laughter.  'Yours!'  he  cried, 
'when  was  she  yours?  What  is  yours?  I  know 
you  now,  poor  madman.  You  are  Ammiel,  a  crazy 
shepherd  from  Galilee,  who  troubled  us  some  time 
since.  Take  him  away,  slaves.  He  has  twenty 
sheep  and  twenty  goats  among  my  flocks  at  the  foot 
of  the  mountain.  See  to  it  that  he  gets  them,  and 
drive  him  away.' 

"I  fought  against  the  slaves  with  my  bare  hands, 
310 


THE  SAD  SHEPHERD 

but  they  held  me.  I  called  to  Tamar,  begging  her 
to  have  pity  on  me,  to  speak  for  me,  to  come  with 
me.  She  looked  up  with  her  eyes  like  doves  be 
hind  her  veil,  but  there  was  no  knowledge  of  me  in 
them.  She  laughed  lazily,  as  if  it  were  a  poor 
comedy,  and  flung  a  broken  rose-branch  in  my  face. 
Then  the  silver  cord  was  loosened  within  me,  and 
my  heart  went  out,  and  I  struggled  no  more.  There 
was  nothing  in  it. 

"Afterward  I  found  myself  on  the  road  with  this 
flock.  I  led  them  past  Hebron  into  the  south  coun 
try,  and  so  by  the  Vale  of  Eshcol,  and  over  many 
hills  beyond  the  Pools  of  Solomon,  until  my  feet 
brought  me  to  your  fire.  Here  I  rest  on  the  way  to 
nowhere." 

He  sat  silent,  and  the  four  shepherds  looked  at 
him  with  amazement. 

"It  is  a  bitter  tale,"  said  Shama,  "and  you  arc  a 
great  sinner." 

"  I  should  be  a  fool  not  to  know  that,"  answered  the 
sad  shepherd,  "but  the  knowledge  does  me  no  good." 

"You  must  repent,"  said  Nathan,  the  youngest 
shepherd,  in  a  friendly  voice. 
311 


THE  SAD  SHEPHERD 

"How  can  a  man  repent,"  answered  the  sad 
shepherd,  "unless  he  has  hope?  But  I  am  sorry 
for  everything,  and  most  of  all  for  living." 

"Would  you  not  live  to  kill  the  fox  Herod?" 
cried  Jotham  fiercely. 

"Why  should  I  let  him  out  of  the  trap,"  an 
swered  the  sad  shepherd.  "Is  he  not  dying  more 
slowly  than  I  could  kill  him?" 

"You  must  have  faith  in  God,"  said  Zadok  earn 
estly  and  gravely. 

"He  is  too  far  away." 

"Then  you  must  have  love  for  your  neighbour." 

"He  is  too  near.  My  confidence  in  man  was  like 
a  pool  by  the  wayside.  It  was  shallow,  but  there 
was  water  in  it,  and  sometimes  a  star  shone  there. 
Now  the  feet  of  many  beasts  have  trampled  through 
it,  and  the  jackals  have  drunken  of  it,  and  there  is 
no  more  water.  It  is  dry  and  the  mire  is  caked  at 
the  bottom." 

"Is  there  nothing  good  in  the  world?" 

"There  is  pleasure,  but  I  am  sick  of  it.  There 
is  power,  but  I  hate  it.  There  is  wisdom,  but  I 
mistrust  it.  Life  is  a  game  and  every  player  is  for 
312 


THE  SAD  SHEPHERD 

his  own  hand.     Mine  is  played.     I  have  nothing  to 
win  or  lose." 

''You  are  young,  you  have  many  years  to  live." 
'I    am   old,   yet   the   days   before   me   are   too 
many." 

"But  you  travel  the  road,  you  go  forward.  Do 
you  hope  for  nothing?" 

"I  hope  for  nothing,"  said  the  sad  shepherd. 
"Yet  if  one  thing  should  come  to  me  it  might  be 
the  beginning  of  hope.  If  I  saw  in  man  or  woman 
a  deed  of  kindness  without  a  selfish  reason,  and  a 
proof  of  love  gladly  given  for  its  own  sake  only, 
then  might  I  turn  my  face  toward  that  light.  Till 
that  comes,  how  can  I  have  faith  in  God  whom  I 
have  never  seen?  I  have  seen  the  world  which  he 
has  made,  and  it  brings  me  no  faith.  There  is 
nothing  in  it." 

"Ammiel-ben-Jochanan,"  said  the  old  man  stern 
ly*  "vou  are  a  son  of  Israel,  and  we  have  had 
compassion  on  you,  according  to  the  law.  But 
you  are  an  apostate,  an  unbeliever,  and  we  can 
have  no  more  fellowship  with  you,  lest  a  curse  come 
upon  us.  The  company  of  the  desperate  brings 
313 


THE  SAD  SHEPHERD 

misfortune.  Go  your  way  and  depart  from  us,  for 
our  way  is  not  yours." 

So  the  sad  shepherd  thanked  them  for  their 
entertainment,  and  took  the  little  kid  again  in  his 
arms,  and  went  into  the  night,  calling  his  flock. 
But  the  youngest  shepherd  Nathan  followed  him  a 
few  steps  and  said: 

"There  is  a  broken  fold  at  the  foot  of  the  hill. 
It  is  old  and  small,  but  you  may  find  a  shelter  there 
for  your  flock  where  the  wind  will  not  shake  you. 
Go  your  way  with  God,  brother,  and  see  better 
days." 

Then  Ammiel  went  a  little  way  down  the  hill 
and  sheltered  his  flock  in  a  corner  of  the  crumbling 
walls.  He  lay  among  the  sheep  and  the  goats  with 
his  face  upon  his  folded  arms,  and  whether  the  time 
passed  slowly  or  swiftly  he  did  not  know,  for  he 
slept. 

He  waked  as  Nathan  came  running  and  stumbling 
among  the  scattered  stones. 

"We  have  seen  a  vision,"  he  cried,  "a  wonderful 
vision  of  angels.  Did  you  not  hear  them?  They 
sang  loudly  of  the  Hope  of  Israel.  We  are  going 
314 


So  the  sad  shepherd  thanked  them  for  their  entertainment. 


THE  SAD  SHEPHERD 

to  Bethlehem  to  see  this  thing  which  is  come  to 
pass.  Come  you  and  keep  watch  over  our  sheep 
while  we  are  gone." 

"Of  angels  I  have  seen  and  heard  nothing,"  said 
Ammiel,  "but  I  will  guard  your  flocks  with  mine, 
since  I  am  in  debt  to  you  for  bread  and  fire." 

So  he  brought  the  kid  in  his  arms,  and  the  weary 
flock  straggling  after  him,  to  the  south  wall  of  the 
great  fold  again,  and  sat  there  by  the  embers  at  the 
foot  of  the  tower,  while  the  others  were  away. 

The  moon  rested  like  a  ball  on  the  edge  of  the 
western  hills  and  rolled  behind  them.  The  stars 
faded  in  the  east  and  the  fires  went  out  on  the 
Mountain  of  the  Little  Paradise.  Over  the  hills  of 
Moab  a  gray  flood  of  dawn  rose  slowly,  and  arrows 
of  red  shot  far  up  before  the  sunrise. 

The  shepherds  returned  full  of  joy  and  told  what 
they  had  seen. 

"It  was  even  as  the  angels  said  unto  us,"  said 
Shama,  "and  it  must  be  true.  The  King  of  Israel 
has  come.  The  faithful  shall  be  blessed." 

"Herod  shall  fall,"  cried  Jotham,  lifting  his 
clenched  fist  toward  the  dark  peaked  mountain. 
315 


THE   SAD   SHEPHERD 

"Burn,  black  Iduraean,  in  the  bottomless  pit,  where 
the  fire  is  not  quenched." 

Zadok  spoke  more  quietly.  "We  found  the  new 
born  child  of  whom  the  angels  told  us  wrapped  in 
swaddling  clothes  and  lying  in  a  manger.  The  ways 
of  God  are  wonderful.  His  salvation  comes  out  of 
darkness.  But  you,  Ammiel-ben-Jochanan,  except 
you  believe,  you  shall  not  see  it.  Yet  since  you 
have  kept  our  flocks  faithfully,  and  because  of  the 
joy  that  has  come  to  us,  I  give  you  this  piece  of 
silver  to  help  you  on  your  way." 

But  Nathan  came  close  to  the  sad  shepherd  and 
touched  him  on  the  shoulder  with  a  friendly  hand. 
"Go  you  also  to  Bethlehem,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice, 
"for  it  is  good  to  see  what  we  have  seen,  and  we 
will  keep  your  flock  until  you  return." 

"I  will  go,"  said  Ammiel,  looking  into  his  face, 
"for  I  think  you  wish  me  well.  But  whether  I 
shall  see  what  you  have  seen,  or  whether  I  shall 
ever  return,  I  know  not.  Farewell." 


316 


THE   SAD   SHEPHERD 
III 

DAWN 

THE  narrow  streets  of  Bethlehem  were  waking 
to  the  first  stir  of  life  as  the  sad  shepherd  came  into 
the  town  with  the  morning,  and  passed  through 
them  like  one  walking  in  his  sleep. 

The  court-yard  of  the  great  khan  and  the  open 
rooms  around  it  were  crowded  with  travellers, 
rousing  from  their  night's  rest  and  making  ready 
for  the  day's  journey.  In  front  of  the  stables  half 
hollowed  in  the  rock  beside  the  inn,  men  were  sad 
dling  their  horses  and  their  beasts  of  burden,  and 
there  was  much  noise  and  confusion. 

But  beyond  these,  at  the  end  of  the  line,  there 
was  a  deeper  grotto  in  the  rock,  which  was  used 
only  when  the  nearer  stalls  were  full.  Beside  the 
entrance  of  this  cave  an  ass  was  tethered,  and  a 
man  of  middle  age  stood  in  the  doorway. 

The  sad  shepherd  saluted  him  and  told  his  name. 

"I  am  Joseph  the  carpenter  of  Nazareth,"  re 
plied  the  man.     "Have  you  also  seen  the  angels  of 
whom  your  brother  shepherds  came  to  tell  us?" 
317 


THE  SAD   SHEPHERD 

"I  have  seen  no  angels,"  answered  Ammiel,  "nor 
have  I  any  brothers  among  the  shepherds.  But  I 
would  fain  see  what  they  have  seen." 

"It  is  our  first-born  son,"  said  Joseph,  "and  the 
Most  High  has  sent  him  to  us.  He  is  a  marvellous 
child:  great  things  are  foretold  of  him.  You  may 
go  in,  but  quietly,  for  the  child  and  his  mother 
Mary  are  asleep." 

So  the  sad  shepherd  went  in  quietly.  His  long 
shadow  entered  before  him,  for  the  sunrise  was 
flowing  into  the  door  of  the  grotto.  It  was  made 
clean  and  put  in  order,  and  a  bed  of  straw  was  laid 
in  the  corner  on  the  ground. 

The  child  was  asleep,  but  the  young  mother  was 
waking,  for  she  had  taken  him  from  the  manger 
into  her  lap,  where  her  maiden  veil  of  white  was 
spread  to  receive  him.  And  she  was  singing  very 
softly  as  she  bent  over  him  in  wonder  and  con 
tent. 

Ammiel  saluted  her  and  kneeled  down  to  look  at 

the  child.     He  saw  nothing  different  from  other 

young  children.     The  mother  waited  for  him  to 

speak  of  angels,  as  the  other  shepherds  had  done. 

318 


THE  SAD  SHEPHERD 

The  sad  shepherd  did  not  speak,  but  only  looked. 
And  as  he  looked  his  face  changed. 

"You  have  suffered  pain  and  danger  and  sorrow 
for  his  sake,"  he  said  gently. 

"They  are  past,"  she  answered,  "and  for  his  sake 
I  have  suffered  them  gladly." 

"He  is  very  little  and  helpless;  you  must  bear 
many  troubles  for  his  sake." 

"To  care  for  him  is  my  joy,  and  to  bear  him 
lightens  my  burden." 

"He  does  not  know  you,  he  can  do  nothing  for 
you." 

"But  I  know  him.  I  have  carried  him  under  my 
heart,  he  is  my  son  and  my  king." 

"Why  do  you  love  him?" 

The  mother  looked  up  at  the  sad  shepherd  with 
a  great  reproach  in  her  soft  eyes.  Then  her  look 
grew  pitiful  as  it  rested  on  his  face. 

"You  are  a  sorrowful  man,"  she  said. 

"I  am  a  wicked  man,"  he  answered. 

She  shook  her  head  gently. 

"I  know  nothing  of  that,"  she  said,  "but  you 
must  be  very  sorrowful,  since  you  are  born  of  a 
319 


THE  SAD  SHEPHERD 

woman  and  yet  you  ask  a  mother  why  she  loves 
her  child.  I  love  him  for  love's  sake,  because  God 
has  given  him  to  me." 

So  the  mother  Mary  leaned  over  her  little  son 
again  and  began  to  croon  a  song  as  if  she  were  alone 
with  him. 

But  Ammiel  was  still  there,  watching  and  think 
ing  and  beginning  to  remember.  It  came  back  to 
him  that  there  was  a  woman  in  Galilee  who  had 
wept  when  he  was  rebuked;  whose  eyes  had  fol 
lowed  him  when  he  was  unhappy,  as  if  she  longed 
to  do  something  for  him;  whose  voice  had  broken 
and  dropped  silent  while  she  covered  her  tear- 
stained  face  when  he  went  away. 

His  thoughts  flowed  swiftly  and  silently  toward 
her  and  after  her  like  rapid  waves  of  light.  There 
was  a  thought  of  her  bending  over  a  little  child  in 
her  lap,  singing  softly  for  pure  joy, — and  the  child 
was  himself.  There  was  a  thought  of  her  lifting  a 
little  child  to  the  breast  that  had  borne  him  as  a 
burden  and  a  pain,  to  nourish  him  there  as  a 
comfort  and  a  treasure, — and  the  child  was  him 
self.  There  was  a  thought  of  her  watching  and 
320 


THE  SAD  SHEPHERD 

tending  and  guiding  a  little  child  from  day  to 
day,  from  year  to  year,  putting  tender  arms  around 
him,  bending  over  his  first  wavering  steps,  rejoic 
ing  in  his  joys,  wiping  away  the  tears  from  his  eyes, 
as  he  had  never  tried  to  wipe  her  tears  away, — and 
the  child  was  himself.  She  had  done  everything 
for  the  child's  sake,  but  what  had  the  child  done 
for  her  sake?  And  the  child  was  himself:  that  was 
what  he  had  come  to, — after  the  nightfire  had 
burned  out,  after  the  darkness  had  grown  thin  and 
melted  in  the  thoughts  that  pulsed  through  it  like 
rapid  waves  of  light, — that  was  what  he  had  come 
to  in  the  early  morning, — himself,  a  child  in  his 
mother's  arms. 

Then  he  arose  and  went  out  of  the  grotto  softly, 
making  the  three-fold  sign  of  reverence;  and  the 
eyes  of  Mary  followed  him  with  kind  looks. 

Joseph  of  Nazareth  was  still  waiting  outside  the 
door. 

"How  was  it  that  you  did  not  see  the  angels?" 
he  asked.  "Were  you  not  with  the  other  shep 
herds?" 

"No,"  answered  Ammiel,  "I  was  asleep.  But  I 
321 


THE  SAD  SHEPHERD 

have  seen  the  mother  and  the  child.  Blessed  be 
the  house  that  holds  them." 

"You  are  strangely  clad  for  a  shepherd,"  said 
Joseph.  "Where  do  you  come  from?" 

"From  a  far  country,"  replied  Ammiel;  "from  a 
country  that  you  have  never  visited." 

"Where  are  you  going  now?"  asked  Joseph. 

"I  am  going  home,"  answered  Ammiel,  "to  my 
mother's  and  my  father's  house  in  Galilee." 

"Go  in  peace,  friend,"  said  Joseph. 

And  the  sad  shepherd  took  up  his  battered  staff, 
and  went  on  his  way  rejoicing. 


322 


THE    MANSION 


THE    MANSION 


1  HERE  was  an  air  of  calm  and  reserved  opulence 
about  the  Weightman  mansion  that  spoke  not  of 
money  squandered,  but  of  wealth  prudently  ap 
plied.  Standing  on  a  corner  of  the  Avenue  no 
longer  fashionable  for  residence,  it  looked  upon  the 
swelling  tide  of  business  with  an  expression  of  com 
placency  and  half-disdain. 

The  house  was  not  beautiful.  There  was  noth 
ing  in  its  straight  front  of  chocolate-coloured  stone, 
its  heavy  cornices,  its  broad,  staring  windows  of 
plate  glass,  its  carved  and  bronze-bedecked  mahog 
any  doors  at  the  top  of  the  wide  stoop,  to  charm 
the  eye  or  fascinate  the  imagination.  But  it  was 
eminently  respectable,  and  in  its  way  imposing. 
It  seemed  to  say  that  the  glittering  shops  of  the 
jewellers,  the  milliners,  the  confectioners,  the  florists, 
the  picture-dealers,  the  furriers,  the  makers  of  rare 
and  costly  antiquities,  retail  traders  in  the  luxuries 

Copyright,  1910,  1911,  by  Harper  &  Brothers 

325 


THE  MANSION 

of  life,  were  beneath  the  notice  of  a  house  that  had 
its  foundations  in  the  high  finance,  and  was  built 
literally  and  figuratively  in  the  shadow  of  St. 
Petronius'  Church. 

At  the  same  time  there  was  something  self- 
pleased  and  congratulatory  in  the  way  in  which 
the  mansion  held  its  own  amid  the  changing  neigh 
bourhood.  It  almost  seemed  to  be  lifted  up  a 
little,  among  the  tall  buildings  near  at  hand,  as  if  it 
felt  the  rising  value  of  the  land  on  which  it  stood. 

John  Weightman  was  like  the  house  into  which 
he  had  built  himself  thirty  years  ago,  and  in  which 
his  ideals  and  ambitions  were  incrusted.  He  was 
a  self-made  man.  But  in  making  himself  he  had 
chosen  a  highly  esteemed  pattern  and  worked  ac 
cording  to  the  approved  rules.  There  was  nothing 
irregular,  questionable,  flamboyant  about  him.  He 
was  solid,  correct,  and  justly  successful. 

His  minor  tastes,  of  course,  had  been  carefully 
kept  up  to  date.  At  the  proper  time,  pictures  by 
the  Barbizon  masters,  old  English  plate  and  por 
traits,  bronzes  by  Barye  and  marbles  by  Rodin, 
Persian  carpets  and  Chinese  porcelains,  had  been 
326 


THE  MANSION 

introduced  to  the  mansion.  It  contained  a  Louis 
Quinze  reception-room,  an  Empire  drawing-room, 
a  Jacobean  dining-room,  and  various  apartments 
dimly  reminiscent  of  the  styles  of  furniture  affected 
by  deceased  monarchs.  That  the  hallways  were 
too  short  for  the  historic  perspective  did  not  make 
much  difference.  American  decorative  art  is  ca 
pable  de  tout,  it  absorbs  all  periods.  Of  each  period 
Mr.  Weightman  wished  to  have  something  of  the 
best.  He  understood  its  value,  present  as  a  certifi 
cate,  and  prospective  as  an  investment. 

It  was  only  in  the  architecture  of  his  town  house 
that  he  remained  conservative,  immovable,  one 
might  almost  say  Early- Victorian-Christian.  His 
country  house  at  Dulwich-on-the-Sound  was  a  pal 
ace  of  the  Italian  Renaissance.  But  in  town  he 
adhered  to  an  architecture  which  had  moral  asso 
ciations,  the  Nineteenth-Century-Brownstone  epoch. 
It  was  a  symbol  of  his  social  position,  his  religious 
doctrine,  and  even,  in  a  way,  of  his  business  creed. 

"A  man  of  fixed  principles,"  he  would  say, 
"should  express  them  in  the  looks  of  his  house. 
New  York  changes  its  domestic  architecture  too 
327 


THE  MANSION 

rapidly.  It  is  like  divorce.  It  is  not  dignified.  I 
don't  like  it.  Extravagance  and  fickleness  are  ad 
vertised  in  most  of  these  new  houses.  I  wish  to  be 
known  for  different  qualities.  Dignity  and  pru 
dence  are  the  things  that  people  trust.  Every  one 
knows  that  I  can  afford  to  live  in  the  house  that 
suits  me.  It  is  a  guarantee  to  the  public.  It  in 
spires  confidence.  It  helps  my  influence.  There  is 
a  text  in  the  Bible  about '  a  house  that  hath  founda 
tions.'  That  is  the  proper  kind  of  a  mansion  for  a 
solid  man." 

Harold  Weightman  had  often  listened  to  his 
father  discoursing  in  this  fashion  on  the  funda 
mental  principles  of  life,  and  always  with  a  divided 
mind.  He  admired  immensely  his  father's  talents 
and  the  single-minded  energy  with  which  he  im 
proved  them.  But  in  the  paternal  philosophy 
there  was  something  that  disquieted  and  oppressed 
the  young  man,  and  made  him  gasp  inwardly  for 
fresh  air  and  free  action. 

At  times,  during  his  college  course  and  his  years 
at  the  law  school,  he  had  yielded  to  this  impulse 
and  broken  away — now  toward  extravagance  and 
328 


THE  MANSION 

dissipation,  and  then,  when  the  reaction  came, 
toward  a  romantic  devotion  to  work  among  the 
poor.  He  had  felt  his  father's  disapproval  for  both 
of  these  forms  of  imprudence;  but  it  was  never 
expressed  in  a  harsh  or  violent  way,  always  with  a 
certain  tolerant  patience,  such  as  one  might  show 
for  the  mistakes  and  vagaries  of  the  very  young. 
John  Weightman  was  not  hasty,  impulsive,  incon 
siderate,  even  toward  his  own  children.  With 
them,  as  with  the  rest  of  the  world,  he  felt  that  he 
had  a  reputation  to  maintain,  a  theory  to  vindicate. 
He  could  afford  to  give  them  time  to  see  that  he 
was  absolutely  right. 

One  of  his  favourite  Scripture  quotations  was, 
"Wait  on  the  Lord."  He  had  applied  it  to  real 
estate  and  to  people,  with  profitable  results. 

But  to  human  persons  the  sensation  of  being 
waited  for  is  not  always  agreeable.  Sometimes, 
especially  with  the  young,  it  produces  a  vague  rest 
lessness,  a  dumb  resentment,  which  is  increased  by 
the  fact  that  one  can  hardly  explain  or  justify  it. 
Of  this  John  Weightman  was  not  conscious.  It 
lay  beyond  his  horizon.  He  did  not  take  it  into 
329 


THE  MANSION 

account  in  the  plan  of  life  which  he  made  for  him 
self  and  for  his  family  as  the  sharers  and  inheritors 
of  his  success. 

"Father  plays  us,"  said  Harold,  in  a  moment  of 
irritation,  to  his  mother,  "like  pieces  in  a  game  of 
chess." 

"My  dear,"  said  that  lady,  whose  faith  in  her 
husband  was  religious,  "you  ought  not  to  speak  so 
impatiently.  At  least  he  wins  the  game.  He  is 
one  of  the  most  respected  men  in  New  York.  And 
he  is  very  generous,  too." 

"I  wish  he  would  be  more  generous  in  letting  us 
be  ourselves,"  said  the  young  man.  "He  always 
has  something  in  view  for  us  and  expects  to  move 
us  up  to  it." 

"But  isn't  it  always  for  our  benefit?"  replied  his 
mother.  "Look  what  a  position  we  have.  No  one 
can  say  there  is  any  taint  on  our  money.  There 
are  no  rumours  about  your  father.  He  has  kept  the 
laws  of  God  and  of  man.  He  has  never  made  any 
mistakes." 

Harold  got  up  from  his  chair  and  poked  the  fire. 
Then  he  came  back  to  the  ample,  well-gowned,  firm- 
330 


THE  MANSION 

looking  lady,  and  sat  beside  her  on  the  sofa.  He 
took  her  hand  gently  and  looked  at  the  two  rings — 
a  thin  band  of  gold,  and  a  small  solitaire  diamond — 
which  kept  their  place  on  her  third  finger  in  modest 
dignity,  as  if  not  shamed,  but  rather  justified,  by 
the  splendour  of  the  emerald  which  glittered  beside 
them. 

"Mother,"  he  said,  "you  have  a  wonderful  hand, 
And  father  made  no  mistake  when  he  won  you. 
But  are  you  sure  he  has  always  been  so  inerrant?" 

"Harold,"  she  exclaimed,  a  little  stiffly,  "what 
do  you  mean?  His  life  is  an  open  book." 

"Oh,"  he  answered,  "I  don't  mean  anything 
bad,  mother  dear.  I  know  the  governor's  life  is 
an  open  book — a  ledger,  if  you  like,  kept  in  the 
best  book-keeping  hand,  and  always  ready  for  in 
spection — every  page  correct,  and  showing  a  hand 
some  balance.  But  isn't  it  a  mistake  not  to  allow 
us  to  make  our  own  mistakes,  to  learn  for  ourselves, 
to  live  our  own  lives?  Must  we  be  always  working 
for  'the  balance,'  in  one  thing  or  another?  I  want 
to  be  myself, — to  get  outside  of  this  everlasting, 
profitable  'plan,' — to  let  myself  go,  and  lose  myself 
331 


THE  MANSION 

for  a  while  at  least, — to  do  the  things  that  I  want 
to  do,  just  because  I  want  to  do  them." 

"My  boy,"  said  his  mother,  anxiously,  "you  are 
not  going  to  do  anything  wrong  or  foolish?  You 
know  the  falsehood  of  that  old  proverb  about  wild 
oats." 

He  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed.  "Yes, 
mother,"  he  answered,  "I  know  it  well  enough. 
But  in  California,  you  know,  the  wild  oats  are  one 
of  the  most  valuable  crops.  They  grow  all  over  the 
hillsides  and  keep  the  cattle  and  the  horses  alive. 
But  that  wasn't  what  I  meant — to  sow  wild  oats. 
Say  to  pick  wild  flowers,  if  you  like,  or  even  to  chase 
wild  geese — to  do  something  that  seems  good  to  me 
just  for  its  own  sake,  not  for  the  sake  of  wages  of 
one  kind  or  another.  I  feel  like  a  hired  man,  in 
the  service  of  this  magnificent  mansion — say  in 
training  for  father's  place  as  major-domo.  I'd  like 
to  get  out  some  wTay,  to  feel  free — perhaps  to  do 
something  for  others." 

The  young  man's  voice  hesitated  a  little.  "Yes, 
it  sounds  like  cant,  I  know,  but  sometimes  I  feel  as 
if  I'd  like  to  do  some  good  in  the  world,  if  father 
332 


THE  MANSION 

only  wouldn't  insist  upon  God's  putting  it  into  the 
ledger." 

His  mother  moved  uneasily,  and  a  slight  look  of 
bewilderment  came  into  her  face. 

"Isn't  that  almost  irreverent?"  she  asked. 
"Surely  the  righteous  must  have  their  reward. 
And  your  father  is  good.  See  how  much  he  gives 
to  all  the  established  charities,  how  many  things 
he  has  founded.  He's  always  thinking  of  others, 
and  planning  for  them.  And  surely,  for  us  he 
does  everything.  How  well  he  has  planned  this 
trip  to  Europe  for  me  and  the  girls — the  court- 
presentation  at  Berlin,  the  season  on  the  Riviera, 
the  visits  in  England  with  the  Plumptons  and  the 
Halverstones.  He  says  Lord  Halverstone  has  the 
finest  old  house  in  Sussex,  pure  Elizabethan,  and 
all  the  old  customs  are  kept  up,  too — family  prayers 
every  morning  for  all  the  domestics.  By-the-way, 
you  know  his  son  Bertie,  I  believe." 

Harold  smiled  a  little  to  himself  as  he  answered: 

"Yes,  I  fished  at  Catalina  Island  last  June  with  the 

Honorable  Ethelbert;   he's  rather  a  decent  chap,  in 

spite  of  his  in-growing  mind.     But  you? — mother, 

333 


THE  MANSION 

you  are  simply  magnificent!  You  are  father's 
masterpiece."  The  young  man  leaned  over  to  kiss 
her,  and  went  up  to  the  Riding  Club  for  his  after 
noon  canter  in  the  Park. 

So  it  came  to  pass,  early  in  December,  that  Mrs. 
Weightman  and  her  two  daughters  sailed  for  Europe, 
on  their  serious  pleasure  trip,  even  as  it  had  been 
written  in  the  book  of  Providence;  and  John 
Weightman,  who  had  made  the  entry,  was  left  to 
pass  the  rest  of  the  winter  with  his  son  and  heir  in 
the  brownstone  mansion. 

They  were  comfortable  enough.  The  machinery 
of  the  massive  establishment  ran  as  smoothly  as  a 
great  electric  dynamo.  They  were  busy  enough, 
too.  John  Weightman's  plans  and  enterprises  were 
complicated,  though  his  principle  of  action  was 
always  simple — to  get  good  value  for  every  expendi 
ture  and  effort.  The  banking-house  of  which  he 
was  the  brain,  the  will,  the  absolutely  controlling 
hand,  was  so  admirably  organised  that  the  details 
of  its  direction  took  but  little  time.  But  the  scores 
of  other  interests  that  radiated  from  it  and  were 
dependent  upon  it, — or  perhaps  it  would  be  more 
334 


THE  MANSION 

accurate  to  say,  that  contributed  to  its  solidity  and 
success, — the  many  investments,  industrial,  political, 
benevolent,  reformatory,  ecclesiastical,  that  had 
made  the  name  of  Weightman  well  known  and 
potent  in  city,  church,  and  state,  demanded  much 
attention  and  careful  steering,  in  order  that  each 
might  produce  the  desired  result.  There  were 
board  meetings  of  corporations  and  hospitals,  con 
ferences  in  Wall  Street  and  at  Albany,  consultations 
and  committee  meetings  in  the  brownstone  mansion. 

For  a  share  in  all  this  business  and  its  adjuncts 
John  Weightman  had  his  son  in  training  in  one  of 
the  famous  law  firms  of  the  city;  for  he  held  that 
banking  itself  is  a  simple  affair,  the  only  real  diffi 
culties  of  finance  are  on  its  legal  side.  Meantime 
he  wished  the  young  man  to  meet  and  know  the 
men  with  whom  he  would  have  to  deal  when  he 
became  a  partner  in  the  house.  So  a  couple  of 
dinners  were  given  in  the  mansion  during  Decem 
ber,  after  which  the  father  called  his  son's  attention 
to  the  fact  that  over  a  hundred  million  dollars  had 
sat  around  the  board. 

But  on  Christmas  Eve  father  and  son  were  dining 
335 


THE  MANSION 

together  without  guests,  and  their  talk  across  the 
broad  table,  glittering  with  silver  and  cut  glass,  and 
softly  lit  by  shaded  candles,  was  intimate,  though 
a  little  slow  at  times.  The  elder  man  was  in  rather 
a  rare  mood,  more  expansive  and  confidential  than 
usual;  and,  when  the  coffee  was  brought  in  and 
they  were  left  alone,  he  talked  more  freely  of  his 
personal  plans  and  hopes  than  he  had  ever  done 
before. 

"I  feel  very  grateful  to-night,"  said  he,  at  last; 
"it  must  be  something  in  the  air  of  Christmas  that 
gives  me  this  feeling  of  thankfulness  for  the  many 
mercies  that  have  been  bestowed  upon  me.  All  the 
principles  by  which  I  have  tried  to  guide  my  life 
have  been  justified.  I  have  never  made  the  value 
of  this  salted  almond  by  anything  that  the  courts 
would  not  uphold,  at  least  in  the  long  run,  and  yet 
— or  wouldn't  it  be  truer  to  say  and  therefore? — 
my  affairs  have  been  wonderfully  prospered.  There's 
a  great  deal  in  that  text  'Honesty  is  the  best' — but 
no,  that's  not  from  the  Bible,  after  all,  is  it?  Wait 
a  moment;  there  is  something  of  that  kind,  I 
know." 

336 


THE  MANSION 

"May  I  light  a  cigar,  father,"  said  Harold,  turn 
ing  away  to  hide  a  smile,  "while  you  are  remem 
bering  the  text?" 

"Yes,  certainly,"  answered  the  elder  man,  rather 
shortly;  "you  know  I  don't  dislike  the  smell.  But 
it  is  a  wasteful,  useless  habit,  and  therefore  I  have 
never  practised  it.  Nothing  useless  is  worth  while, 
that's  my  motto — nothing  that  does  not  bring  a 
reward.  Oh,  now  I  recall  the  text,  'Verily  I  say 
unto  you,  they  have  their  reward.'  I  shall  ask 
Doctor  Snodgrass  to  preach  a  sermon  on  that  verse 
some  day." 

"Using  you  as  an  illustration?" 

"Well,  not  exactly  that;  but  I  could  give  him 
some  good  material  from  my  own  experience  to 
prove  the  truth  of  Scripture.  I  can  honestly  say 
that  there  is  not  one  of  my  charities  that  has  not 
brought  me  in  a  good  return,  either  in  the  increase 
of  influence,  the  building  up  of  credit,  or  the  asso 
ciation  with  substantial  people.  Of  course  you  have 
to  be  careful  how  you  give,  in  order  to  secure  the 
best  results — no  indiscriminate  giving — no  pennies 
in  beggars'  hats!  It  has  been  one  of  my  principles 
337 


THE  MANSION 

always  to  use  the  same  kind  of  judgment  in  charities 
that  I  use  in  my  other  affairs,  and  they  have  not 
disappointed  me." 

"Even  the  check  that  you  put  in  the  plate  when 
you  take  the  offertory  up  the  aisle  on  Sunday 
morning?" 

"Certainly;  though  there  the  influence  is  less 
direct;  and  I  must  confess  that  I  have  my  doubts 
in  regard  to  the  collection  for  Foreign  Missions. 
That  always  seems  to  me  romantic  and  wasteful. 
You  never  hear  from  it  in  any  definite  way.  They 
say  the  missionaries  have  done  a  good  deal  to  open 
the  way  for  trade;  perhaps — but  they  have  also 
gotten  us  into  commercial  and  political  difficulties. 
Yet  I  give  to  them — a  little — it  is  a  matter  of  con 
science  with  me  to  identify  myself  with  all  the  en 
terprises  of  the  Church;  it  is  the  mainstay  of  social 
order  and  a  prosperous  civilisation.  But  the  best 
forms  of  benevolence  are  the  well-established,  organ 
ised  ones  here  at  home,  where  people  can  see  them 
and  know  what  they  are  doing." 

"You  mean  the  ones  that  have  a  local  habitation 
and  a  name." 

338 


THE  MANSION 

"Yes;  they  offer  by  far  the  safest  return,  though 
of  course  there  is  something  gained  by  contributing 
to  general  funds.  A  public  man  can't  afford  to  be 
without  public  spirit.  But  on  the  whole  I  prefer 
a  building,  or  an  endowment.  There  is  a  mutual 
advantage  to  a  good  name  and  a  good  institution 
in  their  connection  in  the  public  mind.  It  helps 
them  both.  Remember  that,  my  boy.  Of  course 
at  the  beginning  you  will  have  to  practise  it  in  a 
small  way;  later,  you  will  have  larger  opportunities. 
But  try  to  put  your  gifts  where  they  can  be  identi 
fied  and  do  good  all  around.  You'll  see  the  wisdom 
of  it  in  the  long  run." 

"I  can  see  it  already,  sir,  and  the  way  you  de 
scribe  it  looks  amazingly  wise  and  prudent.  In 
other  words,  we  must  cast  our  bread  on  the  waters 
in  large  loaves,  carried  by  sound  ships  marked  with 
the  owner's  name,  so  that  the  return  freight  will  be 
sure  to  come  back  to  us." 

The  father  laughed,  but  his  eyes  were  frowning  a 
little  as  if  he  suspected  something  irreverent  under 
the  respectful  reply. 

"You  put  it  humourously,  but  there's  sense  in 
339 


THE  MANSION 

what  you  say.  Why  not?  God  rules  the  sea;  but 
He  expects  us  to  follow  the  laws  of  navigation  and 
commerce.  Why  not  take  good  care  of  your  bread, 
even  when  you  give  it  away?" 

"It's  not  for  me  to  say  why  not — and  yet  I  can 
think  of  cases — "  The  young  man  hesitated  for  a 
moment.  His  half-finished  cigar  had  gone  out. 
He  rose  and  tossed  it  into  the  fire,  in  front  of  which 
he  remained  standing — a  slender,  eager,  restless 
young  figure,  with  a  touch  of  hunger  in  the  fine 
face,  strangely  like  and  unlike  the  father,  at  whom 
he  looked  with  half-wistful  curiosity. 

"The  fact  is,  sir,"  he  continued,  "there  is  such  a 
case  in  my  mind  now.  So  I  thought  of  speaking 
to  you  about  it  to-night.  You  remember  Tom 
Rollins,  the  Junior  who  was  so  good  to  me  when  I 
entered  college?" 

The  father  nodded.  He  remembered  very  well 
indeed  the  annoying  incidents  of  his  son's  first 
escapade,  and  how  Rollins  had  stood  by  him  and 
helped  to  avoid  a  public  disgrace,  and  how  a  close 
friendship  had  grown  between  the  two  boys,  so 
different  in  their  fortunes. 
340 


THE  MANSION 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  remember  him.  He  was  a 
promising  young  man.  Has  he  succeeded?" 

"Not   exactly — that   is,    not   yet.     His   business 
has  been  going  rather  badly.     He  has  a  wife  and 
little  baby,  you  know.     And  now  he  has  broken 
down, — something  wrong  with  his  lungs.     The  doc 
tor  says  his  only  chance  is  a  year  or  eighteen  months 
in  Colorado.     I  wish  we  could  help  him." 
"How  much  would  it  cost?" 
"Three  or  four  thousand,  perhaps,  as  a  loan." 
"Does  the  doctor  say  he  will  get  well?" 
"A  fighting  chance — the  doctor  says." 
The  face  of  the  older  man  changed  subtly.     Not 
a  line  was  altered,  but  it  seemed  to  have  a  different 
substance,  as  if  it  were  carved  out  of  some  firm 
imperishable  stuff. 

"A  fighting  chance,"  he  said,  "may  do  for  a 
speculation,  but  it  is  not  a  good  investment.  You 
owe  something  to  young  Rollins.  Your  grateful 
feeling  does  you  credit.  But  don't  overwork  it. 
Send  him  three  or  four  hundred,  if  you  like.  You'll 
never  hear  from  it  again,  except  in  the  letter  of 

thanks.     But   for   Heaven's   sake   don't   be   senti- 
341 


THE  MANSION 

mental.  Religion  is  not  a  matter  of  sentiment;  it's 
a  matter  of  principle." 

The  face  of  the  younger  man  changed  now.  But 
instead  of  becoming  fixed  and  graven,  it  seemed  to 
melt  into  life.  His  nostrils  quivered  with  quick 
breath,  his  lips  were  curled. 

"  Principle ! "  he  said.  "  You  mean  principal — and 
interest  too.  Well,  sir,  you  know  best  whether  that 
is  religion  or  not.  But  if  it  is,  count  me  out,  please. 
Tom  saved  me  from  going  to  the  devil,  six  years 
ago;  and  I'll  be  damned  if  I  don't  help  him  to  the 
best  of  my  ability  now." 

John  Weightman  looked  at  his  son  steadily. 
"Harold,"  he  said  at  last,  "y°u  know  I  dislike 
violent  language,  and  it  never  has  any  influence 
with  me.  If  I  could  honestly  approve  of  this  pro 
position  of  yours,  I'd  let  you  have  the  money;  but 
I  can't;  it's  extravagant  and  useless.  But  you 
have  your  Christmas  check  for  a  thousand  dollars 
coming  to  you  to-morrow.  You  can  use  it  as  you 
please.  I  never  interfere  with  your  private  affairs." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Harold.  "Thank  you  very 
much!  But  there's  another  private  affair.  I  want 
342 


THE  MANSION 

to  get  away  from  this  life,  this  town,  this  house. 
It  stifles  me.  You  refused  last  summer  when  I 
asked  you  to  let  me  go  up  to  Grenfell's  Mission  on 
the  Labrador.  I  could  go  now,  at  least  as  far  as 
the  Newfoundland  Station.  Have  you  changed 
your  mind?" 

"Not  at  all.  I  think  it  is  an  exceedingly  foolish 
enterprise.  It  would  interrupt  the  career  that  I 
have  marked  out  for  you." 

"Well,  then,  here's  a  cheaper  proposition.  Algy 
Vanderhoof  wants  me  to  join  him  on  his  yacht  with 
— well,  with  a  little  party — to  cruise  in  the  West 
Indies.  Would  you  prefer  that?" 

"Certainly  not!  The  Vanderhoof  set  is  wild  and 
godless — I  do  not  wish  to  see  you  keeping  company 
with  fools  who  walk  in  the  broad  and  easy  way  that 
leads  to  perdition." 

"It  is  rather  a  hard  choice,"  said  the  young  man, 
with  a  short  laugh,  turning  toward  the  door.  "Ac 
cording  to  you  there's  very  little  difference — a  fool's 
paradise  or  a  fool's  hell!  Well,  it's  one  or  the  other 
for  me,  and  I'll  toss  up  for  it  to-night:  heads,  I  lose; 
tails,  the  devil  wins.  Anyway,  I'm  sick  of  this, 
and  I'm  out  of  it." 

343 


THE  MANSION 

"Harold,"  said  the  older  man  (and  there  was  a 
slight  tremor  in  his  voice),  "don't  let  us  quarrel  on 
Christmas  Eve.  All  I  want  is  to  persuade  you  to 
think  seriously  of  the  duties  and  responsibilities  to 
which  God  has  called  you.  Don't  speak  lightly  of 
heaven  and  hell.  Remember,  there  is  another  life." 

The  young  man  came  back  and  laid  his  hand 
upon  his  father's  shoulder. 

"Father,"  he  said,  "I  want  to  remember  it.  I 
try  to  believe  in  it.  But  somehow  or  other,  in  this 
house,  it  all  seems  unreal  to  me.  No  doubt  all  you 
say  is  perfectly  right  and  wise.  I  don't  venture  to 
argue  against  it,  but  I  can't  feel  it — that's  all.  If 
I'm  to  have  a  soul,  either  to  lose  or  to  save,  I  must 
really  live.  Just  now  neither  the  present  nor  the 
future  means  anything  to  me.  But  surely  we  won't 
quarrel.  I'm  very  grateful  to  you,  and  we'll  part 
friends.  Good-night,  sir." 

The  father  held  out  his  hand  in  silence.  The 
heavy  portiere  dropped  noiselessly  behind  the  son, 
and  he  went  up  the  wide,  curving  stairway  to  his 
owrn  room. 

Meantime  John  Weightman  sat  in  his  carved  chair 
in  the  Jacobean  dining-room.  He  felt  strangely 
344 


THE  MANSION 

old  and  dull.  The  portraits  of  beautiful  women 
by  Lawrence  and  Reynolds  and  Raeburn,  which 
had  often  seemed  like  real  company  to  him,  looked 
remote  and  uninteresting.  He  fancied  something 
cold  and  almost  unfriendly  in  their  expression, 
as  if  they  were  staring  through  him  or  beyond  him. 
They  cared  nothing  for  his  principles,  his  hopes, 
his  disappointments,  his  successes;  they  belonged 
to  another  world,  in  which  he  had  no  place.  At 
this  he  felt  a  vague  resentment,  a  sense  of  discom 
fort  that  he  could  not  have  defined  or  explained. 
He  was  used  to  being  considered,  respected,  appre 
ciated  at  his  full  value  in  every  region,  even  in  that 
of  his  own  dreams. 

Presently  he  rang  for  the  butler,  telling  him  to 
close  the  house  and  not  to  sit  up,  and  walked  with 
lagging  steps  into  the  long  library,  where  the  shaded 
lamps  were  burning.  His  eye  fell  upon  the  low 
shelves  full  of  costly  books,  but  he  had  no  desire  to 
open  them.  Even  the  carefully  chosen  pictures  that 
hung  above  them  seemed  to  have  lost  their  attrac 
tion.  He  paused  for  a  moment  before  an  idyll  of 

Corot — a  dance  of  nymphs  around  some  forgotten 
345 


THE  MANSION 

altar  in  a  vaporous  glade — and  looked  at  it  curiously. 
There  was  something  rapturous  and  serene  about 
the  picture,  a  breath  of  spring-time  in  the  misty 
trees,  a  harmony  of  joy  in  the  dancing  figures,  that 
wakened  in  him  a  feeling  of  half  pleasure  and  half 
envy.  It  represented  something  that  he  had  never 
known  in  his  calculated,  orderly  life.  He  was  dimly 
mistrustful  of  it. 

"It  is  certainly  very  beautiful,"  he  thought, 
"but  it  is  distinctly  pagan;  that  altar  is  built  to 
some  heathen  god.  It  does  not  fit  into  the  scheme 
of  a  Christian  life.  I  doubt  whether  it  is  consistent 
with  the  tone  of  my  house.  I  will  sell  it  this  winter. 
It  will  bring  three  or  four  times  what  I  paid  for  it. 
That  was  a  good  purchase,  a  very  good  bargain." 

He  dropped  into  the  revolving  chair  before  his 
big  library  table.  It  was  covered  with  pamphlets 
and  reports  of  the  various  enterprises  in  which  he 
was  interested.  There  was  a  pile  of  newspaper 
clippings  in  which  his  name  was  mentioned  with 
praise  for  his  sustaining  power  as  a  pillar  of  finance, 
for  his  judicious  benevolence,  for  his  support  of 
wise  and  prudent  reform  movements,  for  his  dis- 
346 


THE  MANSION 

cretion  in  making  permanent  public  gifts — "the 
Weightman  Charities,"  one  very  complaisant  editor 
called  them,  as  if  they  deserved  classification  as  a 
distinct  species. 

He  turned  the  papers  over  listlessly.  There  was 
a  description  and  a  picture  of  the  "Weightman 
Wing  of  the  Hospital  for  Cripples,"  of  which  he 
was  president;  and  an  article  on  the  new  professor 
in  the  "Weightman  Chair  of  Political  Jurisprudence  " 
in  Jackson  University,  of  which  he  was  a  trustee; 
and  an  illustrated  account  of  the  opening  of  the 
"Weightman  Grammar-School"  at  Dulwich-on-the- 
Sound,  where  he  had  his  legal  residence  for  purposes 
of  taxation. 

This  last  was  perhaps  the  most  carefully  planned 
of  all  the  Weightman  Charities.  He  desired  to  win 
the  confidence  and  support  of  his  rural  neighbours. 
It  had  pleased  him  much  when  the  local  newspaper 
had  spoken  of  him  as  an  ideal  citizen  and  the  logical 
candidate  for  the  Governorship  of  the  State;  but 
upon  the  whole  it  seemed  to  him  wiser  to  keep  out 
of  active  politics.  It  would  be  easier  and  better  to 
put  Harold  into  the  running,  to  have  him  sent  to 
347 


THE  MANSION 

the  Legislature  from  the  Dulwich  district,  then  to  the 
national  House,  then  to  the  Senate.    Why  not?    The 
Weightman  interests  were  large  enough  to  need  a  , 
direct   representative    and    guardian    at   Washing 
ton. 

But  to-night  all  these  plans  came  back  to  him 
with  dust  upon  them.  They  were  dry  and  crum 
bling  like  forsaken  habitations.  The  son  upon  whom 
his  complacent  ambition  had  rested  had  turned 
his  back  upon  the  mansion  of  his  father's  hopes. 
The  break  might  not  be  final;  and  in  any  event 
there  would  be  much  to  live  for;  the  fortunes  of 
the  family  would  be  secure.  But  the  zest  of  it  all 
would  be  gone  if  John  Weightman  had  to  give  up 
the  assurance  of  perpetuating  his  name  and  his 
principles  in  his  son.  It  was  a  bitter  disappoint 
ment,  and  he  felt  that  he  had  not  deserved  it. 

He  rose  from  the  chair  and  paced  the  room  with 
leaden  feet.  For  the  first  time -in  his  life  his  age 
was  visibly  upon  him.  His  head  was  heavy  and 
hot,  and  the  thoughts  that  rolled  in  it  were  con 
fused  and  depressing.  Could  it  be  that  he  had 
made  a  mistake  in  the  principles  of  his  existence? 
348 


THE  MANSION 

There  was  no  argument  in  what  Harold  had  said, 
it  was  almost  childish,  and  yet  it  had  shaken  the 
elder  man  more  deeply  than  he  cared  to  show.  It 
held  a  silent  attack  which  touched  him  more  than 
open  criticism. 

Suppose  the  end  of  his  life  were  nearer  than  he 
thought — the  end  must  come  sometime — what  if 
it  were  now?  Had  he  not  founded  his  house  upon 
a  rock?  Had  he  not  kept  the  Commandments? 
Was  he  not,  "touching  the  law,  blameless"?  And 
beyond  this,  even  if  there  were  some  faults  in  his 
character — and  all  men  are  sinners — yet  he  surely 
believed  in  the  saving  doctrines  of  religion — the 
forgiveness  of  sins,  the  resurrection  of  the  body, 
the  life  everlasting.  Yes,  that  was  the  true  source 
of  comfort,  after  all.  He  would  read  a  bit  in  the 
Bible,  as  he  did  every  night,  and  go  to  bed  and  to 
sleep. 

He  went  back  to  his  chair  at  the  library  table. 
A  strange  weight  of  weariness  rested  upon  him, 
but  he  opened  the  book  at  a  familiar  place,  and  his 
eyes  fell  upon  the  verse  at  the  bottom  of  the  page. 

"Lay  not  up  for  yourselves  treasures  upon  earth" 
349 


THE  MANSION 

That  had  been  the  text  of  the  serniDn  a  few  weeks 
before.  Sleepily,  heavily,  he  tried  to  fix  his  mind 
upon  it  and  recall  it.  What  was  it  that  Doctor 
Snodgrass  had  said?  Ah,  yes — that  it  was  a  mis 
take  to  pause  here  in  reading  the  verse.  We  must 
read  on  without  a  pause — Lay  not  up  treasures 
upon  earth  where  moth  and  rust  do  corrupt  and  where 
thieves  break  through  and  steal — that  was  the  true 
doctrine.  We  may  have  treasures  upon  earth,  but 
they  must  not  be  put  into  unsafe  places,  but  into 
safe  places.  A  most  comforting  doctrine!  He  had 
always  followed  it.  Moths  and  rust  and  thieves 
had  done  no  harm  to  his  investments. 

John  Weightman's  drooping  eyes  turned  to  the 
next  verse,  at  the  top  of  the  second  column. 

"But  lay  up  for  yourselves  treasures  in  heaven." 

Now  what  had  the  Doctor  said  about  that? 
How  was  it  to  be  understood — in  what  sense — treas 
ures — in  heaven? 

The  book  seemed  to  float  away  from  him.  The 
light  vanished.  He  wondered  dimly  if  this  could 
be  Death,  coming  so  suddenly,  so  quietly,  so  irre 
sistibly.  He  struggled  for  a  moment  to  hold  himself 
350 


THE   MANSION 

up,  and  then  sank  slowly  forward  upon  the  table. 
His  head  rested  upon  his  folded  hands.  He  slipped 
into  the  unknown. 

II 

How  long  afterward  conscious  life  returned  to 
him  he  did  not  know.  The  blank  might  have  been 
an  hour  or  a  century.  He  knew  only  that  some 
thing  had  happened  in  the  interval.  What  it  was 
he  could  not  tell.  He  found  great  difficulty  in 
catching  the  thread  of  his  identity  again.  He  felt 
that  he  was  himself;  but  the  trouble  was  to  make 
his  connections,  to  verify  and  place  himself,  to 
know  who  and  where  he  was. 

At  last  it  grew  clear.  John  Weightman  was  sit 
ting  on  a  stone,  not  far  from  a  road  in  a  strange  land. 

The  road  was  not  a  formal  highway,  fenced  and 
graded.  It  was  more  like  a  great  travel-trace, 
worn  by  thousands  of  feet  passing  across  the  open 
country  in  the  same  direction.  Down  in  the  valley, 
into  which  he  could  look,  the  road  seemed  to  form 
itself  gradually  out  of  many  minor  paths;  little 
footways  coming  across  the  meadows,  winding 
351 


THE  MANSION 

tracks  following  along  beside  the  streams,  faintly 
marked  trails  emerging  from  the  woodlands.  But 
on  the  hillside  the  threads  were  more  firmly  woven 
into  one  clear  band  of  travel,  though  there  were 
still  a  few  dim  paths  joining  it  here  and  there,  as 
if  persons  had  been  climbing  up  the  hill  by  other 
Nvays  and  had  turned  at  last  to  seek  the  road. 

From  the  edge  of  the  hill,  where  John  Weightman 
sat,  he  could  see  the  travellers,  in  little  groups  or 
larger  companies,  gathering  from  time  to  time  by 
the  different  paths,  and  making  the  ascent.  They 
were  all  clothed  in  white,  and  the  form  of  their 
garments  was  strange  to  him;  it  was  like  some  old 
picture.  They  passed  him,  group  after  group, 
talking  quietly  together  or  singing;  not  moving  in 
haste,  but  with  a  certain  air  of  eagerness  and  joy 
as  if  they  were  glad  to  be  on  their  way  to  an 
appointed  place.  They  did  not  stay  to  speak  to 
him,  but  they  looked  at  him  often  and  spoke  to 
one  another  as  they  looked;  and  now  and  then 
one  of  them  would  smile  and  beckon  him  a  friendly 
greeting,  so  that  he  felt  they  would  like  him  to  be 
with  them. 

352 


THE  MANSION 

There  was  quite  an  interval  between  the  groups; 
and  he  followed  each  of  them  with  his  eyes  as  it 
passed  along  the  ribbon  of  the  road  rising  and  re 
ceding  across  the  wide,  billowy  upland,  among  the 
rounded  hillocks  of  aerial  green  and  gold  and  lilac, 
until  it  came  to  the  high  horizon,  and  stood  out 
lined  for  a  moment,  a  tiny  cloud  of  white  against 
the  tender  blue,  before  it  vanished  over  the  hill. 

For  a  long  time  he  sat  there  watching  and  won 
dering.  It  was  a  very  different  world  from  that  in 
which  his  mansion  on  the  Avenue  was  built;  and 
it  looked  strange  to  him,  but  most  real — as  real  as 
anything  he  had  ever  seen.  Presently  he  felt  a 
strong  desire  to  know  what  country  it  was  and  where 
the  people  were  going.  He  had  a  faint  premoni 
tion  of  what  it  must  be,  but  he  wished  to  be  sure. 
So  he  rose  from  the  stone  where  he  was  sitting,  and 
came  down  through  the  short  grass  and  the  laven 
der  flowers,  toward  a  passing  group  of  people. 
One  of  them  turned  to  meet  him,  and  held  out  his 
hand.  It  was  an  old  man,  under  whose  white 
beard  and  brows  John  Weightman  thought  he 
saw  a  suggestion  of  the  face  of  the  village  doctor 
353 


THE  MANSION 

who  had  cared  for  him  years  ago,  when  he  was  a 
boy  in  the  country. 

"Welcome,"  said  the  old  man.  "Will  you  come 
with  us?" 

"WTiere  are  you  going?" 

"To  the  heavenly  city,  to  see  our  mansions 
there." 

"And  who  are  these  with  you?" 

"Strangers  to  me  until  a  little  while  ago;  I  know 
them  better  now.  But  I  have  known  you  for  a 
long  time,  John  Weightman.  Don't  you  remember 
your  old  doctor?" 

"Yes,"  he  cried — "yes;  your  voice  has  not 
changed  at  all.  I'm  glad  indeed  to  see  you,  Doc 
tor  McLean,  especially  now.  All  this  seems  very 
strange  to  me,  almost  oppressive.  I  wonder  if — 
but  may  I  go  with  you,  do  you  suppose?" 

"Surely,"  answered  the  doctor,  with  his  familiar 
smile;  "it  will  do  you  good.  And  you  also  must 
have  a  mansion  in  the  city  waiting  for  you — a  fine 
one,  too — are  you  not  looking  forward  to  it?" 

"Yes,"  replied  the  other,  hesitating  a  moment; 
"yes — I  believe  it  must  be  so,  although  I  had  not 
354 


THE  MANSION 

expected  to  see  it  so  soon.  But  I  will  go  with  you, 
and  we  can  talk  by  the  way." 

The  two  men  quickly  caught  up  with  the  other 
people,  and  all  went  forward  together  along  the 
road.  The  doctor  had  little  to  tell  of  his  experi 
ence,  for  it  had  been  a  plain,  hard  life,  uneventfully 
spent  for  others,  and  the  story  of  the  village  was 
very  simple.  John  Weigh tman's  adventures  and 
triumphs  would  have  made  a  far  richer,  more  im 
posing  history,  full  of  contacts  with  the  great 
events  and  personages  of  the  time.  But  somehow 
or  other  he  did  not  care  to  speak  much  about  it, 
walking  on  that  wide  heavenly  moorland,  under 
that  tranquil,  sunless  arch  of  blue,  in  that  free  air 
of  perfect  peace,  where  the  light  was  diffused  with 
out  a  shadow,  as  if  the  spirit  of  life  in  all  things 
were  luminous. 

There  was  only  one  person  except  the  doctor  in 
that  little  company  whom  John  Weightman  had 
known  before — an  old  book-keeper  who  had  spent 
his  life  over  a  desk,  carefully  keeping  accounts — a 
rusty,  dull  little  man,  patient  and  narrow,  whose 
wife  had  been  in  the  insane  asylum  for  twenty 
355 


THE  MANSION 

years  and  whose  only  child  was  a  crippled  daughter, 
for  whose  comfort  and  happiness  he  had  toiled  and 
sacrificed  himself  without  stint.  It  was  a  surprise 
to  find  him  here,  as  care-free  and  joyful  as  the  rest. 
The  lives  of  others  in  the  company  were  revealed 
in  brief  glimpses  as  they  talked  together — a  mother, 
early  widowed,  who  had  kept  her  little  flock  of 
children  together  and  laboured  through  hard  and 
heavy  years  to  bring  them  up  in  purity  and  knowl 
edge — a  Sister  of  Charity  who  had  devoted  herself 
to  the  nursing  of  poor  folk  who  were  being  eaten  to 
death  by  cancer — a  schoolmaster  whose  heart  and 
life  had  been  poured  into  his  quiet  work  of  train 
ing  boys  for  a  clean  and  thoughtful  manhood — a 
medical  missionary  who  had  given  up  a  brilliant 
career  in  science  to  take  the  charge  of  a  hospital  in 
darkest  Africa — a  beautiful  woman  with  silver  hair 
who  had  resigned  her  dreams  of  love  and  marriage 
to  care  for  an  invalid  father,  and  after  his  death 
had  made  her  life  a  long,  steady  search  for  ways  of 
doing  kindnesses  to  others — a  poet  who  had  walked 
among  the  crowded  tenements  of  the  great  city, 
bringing  cheer  and  comfort  not  only  by  his  songs, 
356 


THE  MANSION 

but  by  his  wise  and  patient  works  of  practical  aid 
— a  paralysed  woman  who  had  lain  for  thirty  years 
upon  her  bed,  helpless  but  not  hopeless,  succeed 
ing  by  a  miracle  of  courage  in  her  single  aim,  never 
to  complain,  but  always  to  impart  a  bit  of  her  joy 
and  peace  to  every  one  who  came  near  her.  All 
these,  and  other  persons  like  them,  people  of  little 
consideration  in  the  world,  but  now  seemingly  all 
full  of  great  contentment  and  an  inward  gladness 
that  made  their  steps  light,  were  in  the  company 
that  passed  along  the  road,  talking  together  of 
things  past  and  things  to  come,  and  singing  now  and 
then  with  clear  voices  from  which  the  veil  of  age 
and  sorrow  was  lifted. 

John  Weightman  joined  in  some  of  the  songs — 
which  were  familiar  to  him  from  their  use  in  the 
church — at  first  with  a  touch  of  hesitation,  and  then 
more  confidently.  For  as  they  went  on  his  sense 
of  strangeness  and  fear  at  his  new  experience 
diminished,  and  his  thoughts  began  to  take  on  their 
habitual  assurance  and  complacency.  Were  not 
these  people  going  to  the  Celestial  City?  And  was 
not  he  in  his  right  place  among  them?  He  had 
357 


THE  MANSION 

always  looked  forward  to  this  journey.  If  they 
were  sure,  each  one,  of  finding  a  mansion  there, 
could  not  he  be  far  more  sure?  His  life  had  been 
more  fruitful  than  theirs.  He  had  been  a  leader,  a 
founder  of  new  enterprises,  a  pillar  of  Church  and 
State,  a  prince  of  the  House  of  Israel.  Ten  talents 
had  been  given  him,  and  he  had  made  them  twenty. 
His  reward  would  be  proportionate.  He  was  glad 
that  his  companions  were  going  to  find  fit  dwell 
ings  prepared  for  them;  but  he  thought  also  with 
a  certain  pleasure  of  the  surprise  that  some  of 
them  would  feel  when  they  saw  his  appointed 
mansion. 

So  they  came  to  the  summit  of  the  moorland  and 
looked  over  into  the  world  beyond.  It  was  a  vast 
green  plain,  softly  rounded  like  a  shallow  vase,  and 
circled  with  hills  of  amethyst.  A  broad,  shining 
river  flowed  through  it,  and  many  silver  threads  of 
water  were  woven  across  the  green;  and  there  were 
borders  of  tall  trees  on  the  banks  of  the  river,  and 
orchards  full  of  roses  abloom  along  the  little  streams, 
and  in  the  midst  of  all  stood  the  city,  white  and 
wonderful. 

358 


THE  MANSION 

When  the  travellers  saw  it  they  were  filled  with 
awe  and  joy.  They  passed  over  the  little  streams 
and  among  the  orchards  quickly  and  silently,  as  if 
they  feared  to  speak  lest  the  city  should  vanish. 

The  wall  of  the  city  was  very  low,  a  child  could 
see  over  it,  for  it  was  made  only  of  precious  stones. 
The  gate  of  the  city  was  not  like  a  gate  at  all,  for 
it  was  not  barred  with  iron  or  wood,  but  only  a 
single  pearl,  softly  gleaming,  marked  the  place 
where  the  wall  ended  and  the  entrance  lay  open. 

A  person  stood  there  whose  face  was  bright  and 
grave,  and  whose  robe  was  like  the  flower  of  the 
lily,  not  a  woven  fabric,  but  a  living  texture. 

"Come  in,"  he  said  to  the  company  of  travellers; 
"you  are  at  your  journey's  end,  and  your  mansions 
are  ready  for  you." 

John  Weightman  hesitated,  for  he  was  troubled 
by  a  doubt.  Suppose  that  he  was  not  really,  like 
his  companions,  at  his  journey's  end,  but  only  trans 
ported  for  a  little  while  out  of  the  regular  course  of 
his  life  into  this  mysterious  experience?  Suppose 
that,  after  all,  he  had  not  really  passed  through  the 
door  of  death,  like  these  others,  but  was  walking  in 
359 


THE  MANSION 

a  vision,  a  living  man  among  the  blessed  dead. 
Would  it  be  right  for  him  to  go  with  them  into  the 
heavenly  city?  Would  it  not  be  a  deception,  a 
desecration,  a  deep  and  unforgivable  offence?  The 
strange,  confusing  question  had  no  reason  in  it,  as 
he  very  well  knew;  for  if  he  was  dreaming,  then  it 
was  all  a  dream;  but  if  his  companions  were  real, 
then  he  also  was  with  them  in  reality,  and  if  they 
had  died  then  he  must  have  died  too.  Yet  he  could 
not  rid  his  mind  of  the  sense  that  there  was  a  dif 
ference  between  them  and  him,  and  it  made  him 
afraid  to  go  on.  But,  as  he  paused  and  turned, 
the  Keeper  of  the  Gate  looked  straight  and  deep 
into  his  eyes,  and  beckoned  to  him.  Then  he  knew 
that  it  was  not  only  right  but  necessary  that  he 
should  enter. 

They  passed  from  street  to  street  among  fair  and 
spacious  dwellings,  set  in  amaranthine  gardens, 
and  adorned  with  an  infinitely  varied  beauty  of 
divine  simplicity.  The  mansions  differed  in  size, 
in  shape,  in  charm:  each  one  seemed  to  have  its 
own  personal  look  of  loveliness;  yet  all  were  alike 
in  fitness  to  their  place,  in  harmony  with  one  an- 
360 


THE  MANSION 

other,  in  the  addition  which  each  made  to  the 
singular  and  tranquil  splendour  of  the  city 

As  the  little  company  came,  one  by  one,  to  the 
mansions  which  were  prepared  for  them,  and  their 
Guide  beckoned  to  the  happy  inhabitant  to  enter 
in  and  take  possession,  there  was  a  soft  murmur  of 
joy,  half  wonder  and  half  recognition;  as  if  the 
new  and  immortal  dwelling  were  crowned  with 
the  beauty  of  surprise,  lovelier  and  nobler  than  all 
the  dreams  of  it;  and  yet  also  as  if  it  were  touched 
with  the  beauty  of  the  familiar,  the  remembered, 
the  long-loved.  One  after  another  the  travellers 
were  led  to  their  own  mansions,  and  went  in  gladly; 
and  from  within,  through  the  open  doorways,  came 
sweet  voices  of  welcome,  and  low  laughter,  and 
song. 

At  last  there  was  no  one  left  with  the  Guide  but 
the  two  old  friends,  Doctor  McLean  and  John 
Weightman.  They  were  standing  in  front  of  one 
of  the  largest  and  fairest  of  the  houses,  whose  gar 
den  glowed  softly  with  radiant  flowers.  The  Guide 
laid  his  hand  upon  the  doctor's  shoulder. 

"This  is  for  you,"  he  said.  "Go  in;  there  is  no 
361 


THE  MANSION 

more  sickness  here,  no  more  death,  nor  sorrow,  nor 
pain;  for  your  old  enemies  are  all  conquered.  But 
all  the  good  that  you  have  done  for  others,  all  the 
help  that  you  have  given,  all  the  comfort  that  you 
have  brought,  all  the  strength  and  love  that  you 
have  bestowed  upon  the  suffering,  are  here;  for 
we  have  built  them  all  into  this  mansion  for  you." 

The  good  man's  face  was  lighted  with  a  still  joy. 
He  clasped  his  old  friend's  hand  closely,  and  whis 
pered:  "How  wonderful  it  is!  Go  on,  you  will 
come  to  your  mansion  next,  it  is  not  far  away,  and 
we  shall  see  each  other  again  soon,  very  soon." 

So  he  went  through  the  garden,  and  into  the 
music  within.  The  Keeper  of  the  Gate  turned  to 
John  Weightman  with  level,  quiet,  searching  eyes. 
Then  he  asked,  gravely: 

"Where  do  you  wish  me  to  lead  you  now?" 

"To  see  my  own  mansion,"  answered  the  man, 
with  half -concealed  excitement.  "Is  there  not  one 
here  for  me?  You  may  not  let  me  enter  it  yet,  per 
haps,  for  I  must  confess  to  you  that  I  am  only — 

"I   know,"  said   the   Keeper   of   the    Gate — "I 

know  it  all.     You  are  John  Weightman." 
362 


THE  MANSION 

"Yes,"  said  the  man,  more  firmly  than  he  had 
spoken  at  first,  for  it  gratified  him  that  his  name 
was  known.  "Yes,  I  am  John  Weightman, 
Senior  Warden  of  St.  Petronius'  Church.  I  wish 
very  much  to  see  my  mansion  here.  I  believe  that 
you  have  one  for  me.  Will  you  take  me  to  it?" 

The  Keeper  of  the  Gate  drew  a  little  book  from 
the  breast  of  his  robe  and  turned  over  the  pages. 

"Certainly,"  he  said,  with  a  curious  look  at  the 
man,  "your  name  is  here;  and  you  shall  see  your 
mansion  if  you  will  follow  me." 

It  seemed  as  if  they  must  have  walked  miles 
and  miles  through  the  vast  city,  passing  street 
after  street  of  houses  larger  and  smaller,  of  gardens 
richer  and  poorer,  but  all  full  of  beauty  and  delight. 
They  came  into  a  kind  of  suburb,  where  there  were 
many  small  cottages,  with  plots  of  flowers,  very 
lowly,  but  bright  and  fragrant.  Finally  they 
reached  an  open  field,  bare  and  lonely-looking. 
There  were  two  or  three  little  bushes  in  it,  without 
flowers,  and  the  grass  was  sparse  and  thin.  In  the 
centre  of  the  field  was  a  tiny  hut,  hardly  big  enough 
for  a  shepherd's  shelter.  It  looked  as  if  it  had  been 
363 


THE  MANSION 

built  of  discarded  things,  scraps  and  fragments  of 
other  buildings,  put  together  with  care  and  pains, 
by  some  one  who  had  tried  to  make  the  most  of 
cast-off  material.  There  was  something  pitiful  and 
shamefaced  about  the  hut.  It  shrank  and  drooped 
in  its  barren  field,  and  seemed  to  cling  only  by  suf 
ferance  to  the  edge  of  the  splendid  city. 

"This,"  said  the  Keeper  of  the  Gate,  standing 
still  and  speaking  with  a  low,  distinct  voice — "this 
is  your  mansion,  John  Weightman." 

An  almost  intolerable  shock  of  grieved  wonder 
and  indignation  choked  the  man  for  a  moment  so 
that  he  could  not  say  a  word.  Then  he  turned  his 
face  away  from  the  poor  little  hut  and  began  to 
remonstrate  eagerly  with  his  companion. 

"Surely,  sir,"  he  stammered,  "you  must  be  in 
error  about  this.  There  is  something  wrong — some 
other  John  Weightman — a  confusion  of  names — the 
book  must  be  incorrect." 

"There  is  no  mistake,"  said  the  Keeper  of  the 
Gate  very  calmly;  "here  is  your  name,  the  record 
of  your  title  and  your  possessions  in  this  place." 

"But  how  could  such  a  house  be  prepared  for 
364 


THE  MANSION 

me,"  cried  the  man  with  a  resentful  tremor  in  his 
voice — "for  me,  after  my  long  and  faithful  service? 
Is  this  a  suitable  mansion  for  one  so  well  known  and 
devoted?  Why  is  it  so  pitifully  small  and  mean? 
Why  have  you  not  built  it  large  and  fair,  like  the 
others?" 

"That  is  all  the  material  you  sent  us." 

"What!" 

"We  have  used  all  the  material  that  you  sent 
us,"  repeated  the  Keeper  of  the  Gate. 

"Now  I  know  that  you  are  mistaken,"  cried  the 
man  with  growing  earnestness,  "for  all  my  life  long 
I  have  been  doing  things  that  must  have  supplied 
you  with  material.  Have  you  not  heard  that  I 
have  built  a  school-house;  the  wing  of  a  hospital; 
two — yes,  three — small  churches,  and  the  greater 
part  of  a  large  one,  the  spire  of  St.  Petro " 

The  Keeper  of  the  Gate  lifted  his  hand. 

"Wait,"  he  said;  "we  know  all  these  things. 
They  were  not  ill  done.  But  they  were  all  marked 
and  used  as  foundations  for  the  name  and  mansion 
of  John  Weightman  in  the  world.  Did  you  not 
plan  them  for  that?" 

365 


THE  MANSION 

"Yes,"  answered  the  man,  confused  and  taken 
aback,  "I  confess  that  I  thought  often  of  them  in 
that  way.  Perhaps  my  heart  was  set  upon  that 
too  much.  But  there  are  other  things — my  endow 
ment  for  the  college — my  steady  and  liberal  con 
tributions  to  all  the  established  charities — my  sup 
port  of  every  respectable — 

"Wait,"  said  the  Keeper  of  the  Gate  again. 
"Were  not  all  these  carefully  recorded  on  earth 
where  they  would  add  to  your  credit?  They  were 
not  foolishly  done.  Verily,  you  have  had  your 
reward  for  them.  Would  you  be  paid  twice?" 

"No,"  cried  the  man,  with  deepening  dismay, 
"  I  dare  not  claim  that.  I  acknowledge  that  I  con 
sidered  my  own  interest  too  much.  But  surely  not 
altogether.  You  have  said  that  these  things  were 
not  foolishly  done.  They  accomplished  so.ue  good 
in  the  world.  Does  not  that  count  for  something? " 

"Yes,"  answered  the  Keeper  of  the  Gate,  "it 
counts  in  the  world — where  you  counted  it.  But 
it  does  not  belong  to  you  here.  We  have  saved  and 
used  everything  that  you  sent  us.  This  is  the  man 
sion  prepared  for  you." 

366 


THE  MANSION 

As  he  spoke,  his  look  grew  deeper  and  more 
searching,  like  a  flame  of  fire.  John  Weightman 
could  not  endure  it.  It  seemed  to  strip  him  naked 
and  wither  him.  He  sank  to  the  ground  under  a 
crushing  weight  of  shame,  covering  his  eyes  with 
his  hands  and  cowering,  face  downward,  upon  the 
stones.  Dimly  through  the  trouble  of  his  mind  he 
felt  their  hardness  and  coldness. 

"Tell  me,  then,"  he  cried,  brokenly,  "since  my 
life  has  been  so  little  worth,  how  came  I  here  at  all? " 

"Through  the  mercy  of  the  King" — the  answer 
was  like  the  soft  tolling  of  a  bell. 

"And  how  have  I  earned  it?"  he  murmured. 

"It  is  never  earned;  it  is  only  given,"  came  the 
clear,  low  reply. 

"But  how  have  I  failed  so  wretchedly,"  he  asked, 
"in  all  the  purpose  of  my  life?  What  could  I  have 
done  better?  What  is  it  that  counts  here?" 

"Only  that  which  is  truly  given,"  answered  the 
bell-like  voice.  "Only  that  good  which  is  done  for 
the  love  of  doing  it.  Only  those  plans  in  which  the 
welfare  of  others  is  the  master  thought.  Only 
those  labours  in  which  the  sacrifice  is  greater  than 
367 


THE  MANSION 

the  reward.  Only  those  gifts  in  which  the  giver 
forgets  himself." 

The  man  lay  silent.  A  great  weakness,  an  un 
speakable  despondency  and  humiliation  were  upon 
him.  But  the  face  of  the  Keeper  of  the  Gate  was 
infinitely  tender  as  he  bent  over  him. 

"Think  again,  John  Weightman.  Has  there  been 
nothing  like  that  in  your  life?" 

"Nothing,"  he  sighed.  "If  there  ever  were  such 
things,  it  must  have  been  long  ago — they  were  all 
crowded  out — I  have  forgotten  them." 

There  was  an  ineffable  smile  on  the  face  of  the 
Keeper  of  the  Gate,  and  his  hand  made  the  sign  of 
the  cross  over  the  bowed  head  as  he  spoke  gently : 

"These  are  the  things  that  the  King  never  for 
gets;  and  because  there  were  a  few  of  these  in  your 
life,  you  have  a  little  place  here." 

The  sense  of  coldness  and  hardness  under  John 
Weightman's  hands  grew  sharper  and  more  dis 
tinct.  The  feeling  of  bodily  weariness  and  lassitude 
weighed  upon  him,  but  there  was  a  calm,  almost  a 
lightness  in  his  heart  as  he  listened  to  the  fading 
368 


THE  MANSION 

vibrations  of  the  silvery  bell-tones.  The  chimney 
clock  on  the  mantel  had  just  ended  the  last  stroke 
of  seven  as  he  lifted  his  head  from  the  table.  Thin, 
pale  strips  of  the  city  morning  were  falling  into  the 
room  through  the  narrow  partings  of  the  heavy 
curtains. 

What  was  it  that  had  happened  to  him?  Had  he 
been  ill?  Had  he  died  and  come  to  life  again?  Or 
had  he  only  slept,  and  had  his  soul  gone  visiting  in 
dreams?  He  sat  for  some  time,  motionless,  not 
lost,  but  finding  himself  in  thought.  Then  he 
took  a  narrow  book  from  the  table  drawer,  wrote  a 
check,  and  tore  it  out. 

He  went  slowly  up  the  stairs,  knocked  very  softly 
at  his  son's  door,  and,  hearing  no  answer,  entered 
without  noise.  Harold  was  asleep,  his  bare  arm 
thrown  above  his  head,  and  his  eager  face  relaxed 
in  peace.  His  father  looked  at  him  a  moment 
with  strangely  shining  eyes,  and  then  tiptoed 
quietly  to  the  writing-desk,  found  a  pencil  and  a 
sheet  of  paper,  and  wrote  rapidly: 

"My  dear  boy,  here  is  what  you  asked  me  for; 
do  what  you  like  with  it,  and  ask  for  more  if  you 
369 


THE  MANSION 

need  it.  If  you  are  still  thinking  of  that  work 
with  Grenfell,  we'll  talk  it  over  to-day  after  church. 
I  want  to  know  your  heart  better;  and  if  I  have 
made  mistakes " 

A  slight  noise  made  him  turn  his  head.  Harold 
was  sitting  up  in  bed  with  wide-open  eyes. 

"Father!"  he  cried,  "is  that  you?" 

"Yes,  my  son,"  answered  John  Weightman; 
"I've  come  back — I  mean  I've  come  up — no,  I 
mean  come  in — well,  here  I  am,  and  God  give  us 
a  good  Christmas  together." 


370 


w  : 


